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How beautiful it is." Little Rose, her daughter,frowned, and Maxime, the grown son, was annoyed and said impatiently: "You are always interrupting,Mamma!" Clerambault smiled and patted h

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Clerambault, by Rolland, Romain This eBook is for the use of anyoneanywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever You may copy it, give it away or re-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: Clerambault The Story Of An Independent Spirit During The War

Author: Rolland, Romain

Release Date: January 30, 2004 [EBook #10868]

Language: English

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Produced by Rick Niles, John Hagerson, Josephine Paolucci, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.CLERAMBAULT

THE STORY OF AN INDEPENDENT SPIRIT DURING THE WAR

Some chapters of the book have a family likeness to the meditations of our old French moralists and thestoical essays of the end of the XVIth century At a time resembling our own but even exceeding it in tragichorror, amid the convulsions of the League, the Chief-Magistrate Guillaume Du Vair wrote his noble

Dialogues, "De la Constance et Consolation ès Calamités Publiques," with a steadfast mind While the siege

of Paris was at its worst he talked in his garden with his friends, Linus the great traveller, Musée, Dean of theFaculty of Medicine, and the writer Orphée Poor wretches lay dead of starvation in the streets, women criedout that pike-men were eating children near the Temple; but with their eyes filled with these horrible picturesthese wise men sought to raise their unhappy thoughts to the heights where one can reach the mind of the ages

and reckon up that which has survived the test As I re-read these Dialogues during the war I more than oncefelt myself close to that true Frenchman who wrote: Man is born to see and know everything, and it is aninjustice to limit him to one place on the earth To the wise man the whole world is his country God lends usthe world to enjoy in common on one condition only, that we act uprightly.

This book is not written about the war, though the shadow of the war lies over it My theme is that the

individual soul has been swallowed up and submerged in the soul of the multitude; and in my opinion such anevent is of far greater importance to the future of the race than the passing supremacy of one nation

I have left questions of policy in the background intentionally, as I think they should be reserved for specialstudy No matter what causes may be assigned as the origins of the war, no matter what theses support them,nothing in the world can excuse the abdication of individual judgment before general opinion

The universal development of democracies, vitiated by a fossilized survival, the outrageous "reason of State,"has led the mind of Europe to hold as an article of faith that there can be no higher ideal than to serve thecommunity This community is then defined as the State

I venture to say that he who makes himself the servant of a blind or blinded nation, and most of the states are

in this condition at the present day, does not truly serve it but lowers both it and himself; for in general a fewmen, incapable of understanding the complexities of the people, force thoughts and acts upon them in

harmony with their own passions and interests by means of the falsehoods of the press and the implacablemachinery of a centralised government He who would be useful to others must first be free himself; for loveitself has no value coming from a slave

Independent minds and firm characters are what the world needs most today The death-like submission of thechurches, the stifling intolerance of nations, the stupid unitarianism of socialists, by all these different roads

we are returning to the gregarious life Man has slowly dragged himself out of the warm slime, but it seems as

if the long effort has exhausted him; he is letting himself slip backward into the collective mind, and thechoking breath of the pit already rises about him You who do not believe that the cycle of man is

accomplished, you must rouse yourselves and dare to separate yourselves from the herd in which you aredragged along Every man worthy of the name should learn to stand alone, and do his own thinking, even inconflict with the whole world Sincere thought, even if it does run counter to that of others, is still a service tomankind; for humanity demands that those who love her should oppose, or if necessary rebel against her Youwill not serve her by flattery, by debasing your conscience and intelligence, but rather by defending theirintegrity from the abuse of power For these are some of her voices, and if you betray yourself you betray heralso

R.R

SIERRE, March, 1917.

PART ONE

Agénor Clerambault sat under an arbour in his garden at St Prix, reading to his wife and children an ode that

he had just written, dedicated to Peace, ruler of men and things, "Ara Pacis Augustae." In it he wished tocelebrate the near approach of universal brotherhood It was a July evening; a last rosy light lay on the

tree-tops, and through the luminous haze, like a veil over the slopes of the hillside and the grey plain of thedistant city, the windows on Montmartre burned like sparks of gold Dinner was just over Clerambault leanedacross the table where the dishes yet stood, and as he spoke his glance full of simple pleasure passed from one

to the other of his three auditors, sure of meeting the reflection of his own happiness

His wife Pauline followed the flight of his thought with difficulty After the third phrase anything read aloudmade her feel drowsy, and the affairs of her household took on an absurd importance; one might say that thevoice of the reader made them chirp like birds in a cage It was in vain that she tried to follow on

Clerambault's lips, and even to imitate with her own, the words whose meaning she no longer understood; hereye mechanically noted a hole in the cloth, her fingers picked at the crumbs on the table, her mind flew back

to a troublesome bill, till as her husband's eye seemed to catch her in the act, hastily snatching at the lastwords she had heard, she went into raptures over a fragment of verse, for she could never quote poetryaccurately "What was that, Agénor? Do repeat that last line How beautiful it is." Little Rose, her daughter,frowned, and Maxime, the grown son, was annoyed and said impatiently: "You are always interrupting,Mamma!"

Clerambault smiled and patted his wife's hand affectionately He had married her for love when he was young,poor, and unknown, and together they had gone through years of hardship She was not quite on his

intellectual level and the difference did not diminish with advancing years, but Clerambault loved and

respected his helpmate, and she strove, without much success, to keep step with her great man of whom shewas so proud He was extraordinarily indulgent to her His was not a critical nature which was a great help tohim in life in spite of innumerable errors of judgment; but as these were always to the advantage of others,whom he saw at their best, people laughed but liked him He did not interfere with their money hunt and hiscountrified simplicity was refreshing to the world-weary, like a wild-growing thicket in a city square

Maxime was amused by all this, knowing what it was worth He was a good-looking boy of nineteen withbright laughing eyes, and in the Parisian surroundings he had been quick to acquire the gift of rapid, humorousobservation, dwelling on the outside view of men and things more than on ideas Even in those he loved,nothing ridiculous escaped him, but it was without ill-nature Clerambault smiled at the youthful impertinencewhich did not diminish Maxime's admiration for his father but rather added to its flavour A boy in Pariswould tweak the Good Lord by the beard, by way of showing affection!

Rosine was silent according to her habit; it was not easy to know her thoughts as she listened, bent forward,her hands folded and her arms leaning on the table Some natures seem made to receive, like the earth whichopens itself silently to every seed Many seeds fall and remain dormant; none can tell which will bring forthfruit The soul of the young girl was of this kind; her face did not reflect the words of the reader as did

Maxime's mobile features, but the slight flush on her cheek and the moist glance of her eyes under theirdrooping lids showed inward ardour and feeling She looked like those Florentine pictures of the Virginstirred by the magical salutation of the Archangel Clerambault saw it all and as he glanced around his littlecircle his eye rested with special delight on the fair bending head which seemed to feel his look

On this July evening these four people were united in a bond of affection and tranquil happiness of which thecentral point was the father, the idol of the family

He knew that he was their idol, and by a rare exception this knowledge did not spoil him, for he had such joy

in loving, so much affection to spread far and wide that it seemed only natural that he should be loved inreturn; he was really like an elderly child After a life of ungilded mediocrity he had but recently come to beknown, and though the one experience had not given him pain, he delighted in the other He was over fiftywithout seeming to be aware of it, for if there were some white threads in his big fair moustache, like anancient Gaul's, his heart was as young as those of his children Instead of going with the stream of his

generation, he met each new wave; the best of life to him was the spring of youth constantly renewed, and henever troubled about the contradictions into which he was led by this spirit always in reaction against thatwhich had preceded it These inconsistencies were fused together in his mind, which was more enthusiasticthan logical, and filled by the beauty which he saw all around him Add to this the milk of human kindness,which did not mix well with his aesthetic pantheism, but which was natural to him

He had made himself the exponent of noble human ideas, sympathising with advanced parties, the oppressed,the people of whom he knew little, for he was thoroughly of the middle-class, full of vague, generous

theories He also adored crowds and loved to mingle with them, believing that in this way he joined himself tothe All-Soul, according to the fashion at that time in intellectual circles This fashion, as not infrequentlyhappens, emphasised a general tendency of the day; humanity turning to the swarm-idea The most sensitiveamong human insects, artists and thinkers, were the first to show these symptoms, which in them seemed asort of pose, so that the general conditions of which they were a symptom were lost sight of

The democratic evolution of the last forty years had established popular government politically, but sociallyspeaking had only brought about the rule of mediocrity Artists of the higher class at first opposed this

levelling down of intelligence, but feeling themselves too weak to resist they had withdrawn to a distance,emphasising their disdain and their isolation They preached a sort of art, acceptable only to the initiated.There is nothing finer than such a retreat when one brings to it wealth of consciousness, abundance of feelingand an outpouring soul, but the literary groups of the end of the XIXth century were far removed from thosefertile hermitages where robust thoughts were concentrated They cared much more to economise their littlestore of intelligence than to renew it In order to purify it they had withdrawn it from circulation The resultwas that it ceased to be perceived The common life passed on its way without bothering its head further,leaving the artist caste to wither in a make-believe refinement The violent storms at the time of the

excitement about the Dreyfus Case did rouse some minds from this torpor, but when they came out of theirorchid-house the fresh air turned their heads and they threw themselves into the great passing movement withthe same exaggeration that their predecessors had shown in withdrawing from it They believed that salvationwas in the people, that in them was virtue, even all good, and though they were often thwarted in their efforts

to get closer to them, they set flowing a current in the thought of Europe They were proud to call themselvesthe exponents of the collective soul, but they were not victors but vanquished; the collective soul made

breaches in their ivory tower, the feeble personalities of these thinkers yielded, and to hide their abdicationfrom themselves, they declared it voluntary In the effort to convince themselves, philosophers and aestheticsforged theories to prove that the great directing principle was to abandon oneself to the stream of a united lifeinstead of directing it, or more modestly following one's own little path in peace It was a matter of pride to be

no longer oneself, to be no longer free to reason, for freedom was an old story in these democracies Onegloried to be a bubble tossed on the flood, some said of the race and others of the universal life These finetheories, from which men of talent managed to extract receipts for art and thought, were in full flower in 1914.The heart of the simple Clerambault rejoiced in such visions, for nothing could have harmonised better withhis warm heart and inaccurate mind If one has but little self-possession it is easy to give oneself up to others,

to the world, to that indefinable Providential Force on whose shoulders we can throw the burden of thoughtand will The great current swept on and these indolent souls, instead of pursuing their way along the bankfound it easier to let themselves be carried Where? No one took the trouble to ask Safe in their West, itnever occurred to them that their civilisation could lose the advantages gained; the march of progress seemed

as inevitable as the rotation of the earth Firm in this conviction, one could fold one's arms and leave all tonature; who meanwhile was waiting for them at the bottom of the pit that she was digging

As became a good idealist, Clerambault rarely looked where he was going, but that did not prevent him frommeddling in politics in a fumbling sort of way, as was the mania of men of letters in his day He had his word

to say, right or wrong, and was often entreated to speak by journalists in need of copy, and fell into their trap,taking himself seriously in his innocent way On the whole he was a fair poet and a good man, intelligent, ifrather a greenhorn, pure of heart and weak in character, sensitive to praise and blame, and to all the

suggestions round him He was incapable of a mean sentiment of envy or hatred, and unable also to attributesuch thoughts to others Amid the complexity of human feelings, he remained blind towards evil and anadvocate of the good This type of writer is born to please the public, for he does not see faults in men, andenhances their small merits, so that even those who see through him are grateful If we cannot amount tomuch, a good appearance is a consolation, and we love to be reflected in eyes which lend beauty to ourmediocrity

This widespread sympathy, which delighted Clerambault, was not less sweet to the three who surrounded him

at this moment They were as proud of him as if they had made him, for what one admires does seem in asense one's own creation, and when in addition one is of the same blood, a part of the object of our

admiration, it is hard to tell if we spring from him, or he from us

Agénor Clerambault's wife and his two children gazed at their great man with the tender satisfied expression

of ownership; and he, tall and high-shouldered, towered over them with his glowing words and enjoyed it all;

he knew very well that we really belong to the things that we fancy are our possessions

Clerambault had just finished with a Schilleresque vision of the fraternal joys promised in the future Maxime,carried away by his enthusiasm in spite of his sense of humour, had given the orator a round of applause all byhimself Pauline noisily asked if Agénor had not heated himself in speaking, and amid the excitement Rosinesilently pressed her lips to her father's hand

The servant brought in the mail and the evening papers, but no one was in a hurry to read them The news ofthe day seemed behind the times compared with the dazzling future Maxime however took up the popularmiddle-class sheet, and threw his eye over the columns He started at the latest items and exclaimed; "Hullo!War is declared." No one listened to him: Clerambault was dreaming over the last vibrations of his verses;Rosine lost in a calm ecstasy; the mother alone, who could not fix her mind on anything, buzzing about like afly, chanced to catch the last word, "Maxime, how can you be so silly?" she cried, but Maxime protested,showing his paper with the declaration of war between Austria and Servia

"War with whom?" "With Servia?" "Is that all?" said the good woman, as if it were a question of something

in the moon

Maxime however persisted, doctus cum libro, arguing that from one thing to another, this shock no matter

how distant, might bring about a general explosion; but Clerambault, who was beginning to come out of hispleasant trance, smiled calmly, and said that nothing would happen

"It is only a bluff," he declared, "like so many we have had for the last thirty years; we get them regularlyevery spring and summer; just bullying and sabre-rattling." People did not believe in war, no one wanted it;war had been proved to be impossible, it was a bugbear that must be got out of the heads of free democracies and he enlarged on this theme The night was calm and sweet; all around familiar sounds and sights; thechirp of crickets in the fields, a glow-worm shining in the grass, delicious perfume of honey-suckle Faraway the noise of a distant train; the little fountain tinkled, and in the moonless sky revolved the luminoustrack of the light on the Eiffel Tower

The two women went into the house, and Maxime, tired of sitting down, ran about the garden with his littledog, while through the open windows floated out an air of Schumann's, which Rosine, full of timid emotion,was playing on the piano Clerambault left alone, threw himself back in his wicker chair, glad to be a man, to

be alive, breathing in the balm of this summer night with a thankful heart.

Six days later Clerambault had spent the afternoon in the woods, and like the monk in the legend, lyingunder an oak tree, drinking in the song of a lark, a hundred years might have gone by him like a day He couldnot tear himself away till night-fall Maxime met him in the vestibule; he came forward smiling but ratherpale, and said: "Well, Papa, we are in for it this time!" and he told him the news The Russian mobilisation,the state of war in Germany; Clerambault stared at him unable to comprehend, his thoughts were so farremoved from these dark follies He tried to dispute the facts, but the news was explicit, and so they went tothe table, where Clerambault could eat but little

He sought for reasons why these two crimes should lead to nothing Common-sense, public opinion, theprudence of governments, the repeated assurances of the socialists, Jaurès' firm stand; Maxime let him talk,

he was thinking of other things, like his dog with his ears pricked up for the sounds of the night Such apure lovely night! Those who recall the last evenings of July, 1914, and the even more beautiful evening ofthe first day of August, must keep in their minds the wonderful splendour of Nature, as with a smile of pityshe stretched out her arms to the degraded, self-devouring human race

It was nearly ten o'clock when Clerambault ceased to talk, for no one had answered him They sat then insilence with heavy hearts, listlessly occupied or seeming to be, the women with their work, Clerambault withhis eyes, but not his mind, on a book Maxime went out on the porch and smoked, leaning on the railing andlooking down on the sleeping garden and the fairy-like play of the light and shadows on the path

The telephone bell made them start Someone was calling Clerambault, who went slowly to answer,

half-asleep and absent so that at first he did not understand; "Hullo! is that you, old man?" as he recognisedthe voice of a brother-author in Paris, telephoning him from a newspaper office Still he could not seem tounderstand; "I don't hear, Jaurès? What about Jaurès? Oh, my God!" Maxime full of a secret apprehensionhad listened from a distance; he ran and caught the receiver from his father's hand, as Clerambault let it dropwith a despairing gesture "Hullo, Hullo! What do you say? Jaurès assassinated! " As exclamations of painand anger crossed each other on the wire, Maxime made out the details, which he repeated to his family in atrembling voice Rosine had led Clerambault back to the table, where he sat down completely crushed Likethe classic Fate, the shadow of a terrible misfortune settled over the house It was not only the loss of hisfriend that chilled his heart, the kind gay face, the cordial hand, the voice which drove away the clouds, butthe loss of the last hope of the threatened people With a touching, child-like confidence he felt Jaurès to bethe only man who could avert the gathering storm, and he fallen, like Atlas, the sky would crumble

Maxime rushed off to the station to get the news in Paris, promising to come back later in the evening, butClerambault stayed in the isolated house, from which in the distance could be seen the far-off

phosphorescence of the city He had not stirred from the seat where he had fallen stupified This time he could

no longer doubt, the catastrophe was coming, was upon them already Madame Clerambault begged him to go

to bed, but he would not listen to her His thought was in ruins; he could distinguish nothing steady or

constant, could not see any order, or follow an idea, for the walls of his inward dwelling had fallen in, andthrough the dust which rose, it was impossible to see what remained intact He feared there was nothing leftbut a mass of suffering, at which he looked with dull eyes, unconscious of his falling tears Maxime did notcome home, carried away by the excitement at Paris

Madame Clerambault had gone to bed, but about one o'clock she came and persuaded him to come up to theirroom, where he lay down; but when Pauline had fallen asleep anxiety made her sleepy he got up and wentinto the next room He groaned, unable to breathe; his pain was so close and oppressive, that he had no room

to draw his breath With the prophetic hyper-sensitiveness of the artist, who often lives in tomorrow withmore intensity than in the present moment, his agonised eyes and heart foresaw all that was to be This

inevitable war between the greatest nations of the world, seemed to him the failure of civilisation, the ruin ofthe most sacred hopes for human brotherhood He was filled with horror at the vision of a maddened

humanity, sacrificing its most precious treasures, strength, and genius, its highest virtues, to the bestial idol ofwar It was to him a moral agony, a heart-rending communion with these unhappy millions To what end?And of what use had been all the efforts of the ages? His heart seemed gripped by the void; he felt he could nolonger live if his faith in the reason of men and their mutual love was destroyed, if he was forced to

acknowledge that the Credo of his life and art rested on a mistake, that a dark pessimism was the answer to theriddle of the world

He turned his eyes away in terror, he was afraid to look it in the face, this monster who was there, whose hotbreath he felt upon him Clerambault implored, he did not know who or what that this might not be, that itmight not be Anything rather than this should be true! But the devouring fact stood just behind the openingdoor Through the whole night he strove to close that door

At last towards morning, an animal instinct began to wake, coming from he did not know where, which turnedhis despair towards the secret need of finding a definite and concrete cause, to fasten the blame on a man, or agroup of men, and angrily hold them responsible for the misery of the world It was as yet but a brief

apparition, the first faint sign of a strange obscure, imperious soul, ready to break forth, the soul of the

multitude It began to take shape when Maxime came home, for after the night in the streets of Paris, hefairly sweated with it; his very clothes, the hairs of his head, were impregnated Worn out, excited, he couldnot sit down; his only thought was to go back again The decree of mobilisation was to come out that day, warwas certain, it was necessary, beneficial; some things must be put an end to, the future of humanity was atstake, the freedom of the world was threatened "They" had counted on Jaurès' murder to sow dissension andraise riots in the country they meant to attack, but the entire nation had risen to rally round its leaders, thesublime days of the great Revolution were re-born Clerambault did not discuss these statements, he merelyasked: "Do you think so? Are you quite sure?" It was a sort of hidden appeal He wanted Maxime to state, toredouble his assertions The news Maxime had brought added to the chaos, raised it to a climax, but at thesame time it began to direct the distracted forces of his mind towards a fixed point, as the first bark of theshepherd's dog drives the sheep together

Clerambault had but one wish left, to rejoin the flock, rub himself against the human animals, his brothers,feel with them, act with them Though exhausted by sleeplessness, he started, in spite of his wife, to take thetrain for Paris with Maxime They had to wait a long time at the station, and also in the train, for the trackswere blocked, and the cars crowded; but in the common agitation Clerambault found calm He questioned andlistened, everybody fraternised, and not being sure yet what they thought, everyone felt that they thoughtalike The same questions, the same trials menaced them, but each man was no longer alone to stand or fall,and the warmth of this contact was reassuring Class distinctions were gone; no more workmen or gentlemen,

no one looked at your clothes or your hands; they only looked at your eyes where they saw the same flame oflife, wavering before the same impending death All these people were so visibly strangers to the causes of thefatality, of this catastrophe, that their innocence led them like children to look elsewhere for the guilty Itcomforted and quieted their conscience Clerambault breathed more easily when he got to Paris A stoical andvirile melancholy had succeeded to the agony of the night He was however only at the first stage

The order for general mobilisation had just been affixed to the doors of the Mairies People read and re-read

them in silence, then went away without a word After the anxious waiting of the preceding days, with crowdsaround the newspaper booths, people sitting on the sidewalk, watching for the news, and when the paper wasissued gathering in groups to read it, this was certainty It was also a relief An obscure danger, that one feelsapproaching without knowing when or from where, makes you feverish, but when it is there you can takebreath, look it in the face, and roll up your sleeves There had been some hours of deep thought while Parismade ready and doubled up her fists Then that which swelled in all hearts spread itself abroad, the houseswere emptied and there rolled through the streets a human flood of which every drop sought to melt intoanother

Clerambault fell into the midst and was swallowed up All at once He had scarcely left the station, or set hisfoot on the pavement Nothing happened; there were no words or gestures, but the serene exaltation of theflood flowed into him The people were as yet pure from violence; they knew and believed themselves

innocent, and in these first hours when the war was virgin, millions of hearts burned with a solemn and sacredenthusiasm Into this proud, calm intoxication there entered a feeling of the injustice done to them, a

legitimate pride in their strength, in the sacrifices that they were ready to make, and pity for others, now parts

of themselves, their brothers, their children, their loved ones All were flesh of their flesh, closely drawntogether in a superhuman embrace, conscious of the gigantic body formed by their union, and of the

apparition above their heads of the phantom which incarnated this union, the Country Half-beast, half-god,like the Egyptian Sphinx, or the Assyrian Bull; but then men saw only the shining eyes, the feet were hid Shewas the divine monster in whom each of the living found himself multiplied, the devouring Immortality wherethose about to die wished to believe they would find life, super-life, crowned with glory Her invisible

presence flowed through the air like wine; each man brought something to the vintage, his basket, his bunch

of grapes; his ideas, passions, devotions, interests There was many a nasty worm among the grapes, muchfilth under the trampling feet, but the wine was of rubies and set the heart aflame; Clerambault gulped itdown greedily

Nevertheless he was not entirely metamorphosed, for his soul was not altered, it was only forgotten; as soon

as he was alone he could hear it moaning, and for this reason he avoided solitude He persisted in not

returning to St Prix, where the family usually stayed in summer, and reinstalled himself in his apartment atParis, on the fifth floor in the Rue d'Assas He would not wait a week, or go back to help in the moving Hecraved the friendly warmth that rose up from Paris, and poured in at his windows; any excuse was enough toplunge into it, to go down into the streets, join the groups, follow the processions, buy all the

newspapers, which he despised as a rule He would come back more and more demoralised, anaesthetised as

to what passed within him, the habit of his conscience broken, a stranger in his house, in himself; and that iswhy he felt more at home out of doors than in

Madame Clerambault came back to Paris with her daughter, and the first evening after their arrival

Clerambault carried Rosine off to the Boulevards The solemn fervour of the first days had passed War hadbegun, and truth was imprisoned The press, the arch-liar, poured into the open mouth of the world the

poisonous liquor of its stories of victories without retribution; Paris was decked as for a holiday; the housesstreamed with the tricolour from top to bottom, and in the poorer quarters each garret window had its littlepenny flag, like a flower in the hair

On the corner of the Faubourg Montmartre they met a strange procession At the head marched a tall old mancarrying a flag He walked with long strides, free and supple as if he were going to leap or dance, and theskirts of his overcoat flapped in the wind Behind came an indistinct, compact, howling mass, gentle andsimple, arm in arm, a child carried on a shoulder, a girl's red mop of hair between a chauffeur's cap and thehelmet of a soldier Chests out, chins raised, mouths open like black holes, shouting the Marseillaise To rightand left of the ranks, a double line of jail-bird faces, along the curbstone, ready to insult any absent-mindedpasser-by who failed to salute the colours Rosine was startled to see her father fall into step at the end of theline, bare-headed, singing and talking aloud He drew his daughter along by the arm, without noticing thenervous fingers that tried to hold him back

When they came in Clerambault was still talkative and excited He kept on for hours, while the two womenlistened to him patiently Madame Clerambault heard little as usual, and played chorus Rosine did not say aword, but she stealthily threw a glance at her father, and her look was like freezing water

Clerambault was exciting himself; he was not yet at the bottom, but he was conscientiously trying to reach it.Nevertheless there remained to him enough lucidity to alarm him at his own progress An artist yields morethrough his sensibility to waves of emotion which reach him from without, but to resist them he has alsoweapons which others have not For the least reflective, he who abandons himself to his lyrical impulses, has

in some degree the faculty of introspection which it rests with him to utilise If he does not do this, he lacksgood-will more than power; he is afraid to look too clearly at himself for fear of seeing an unflattering picture.Those however who, like Clerambault, have the virtue of sincerity without psychological gifts, are sufficientlywell-equipped to exercise some control over their excitability.

One day as he was walking alone, he saw a crowd on the other side of the street, he crossed over calmly andfound himself on the opposite sidewalk in the midst of a confused agitation circling about an invisible point.With some difficulty he worked his way forward, and scarcely was he within this human mill-wheel, than hefelt himself a part of the rim, his brain seemed turning round At the centre of the wheel he saw a strugglingman, and even before he grasped the reason for the popular fury, he felt that he shared it He did not know if aspy was in question, or if it was some imprudent speaker who had braved the passions of the mob, but as criesrose around him, he realised that he, yes he, Clerambault, had shrieked out: "Kill him."

A movement of the crowd threw him out from the sidewalk, a carriage separated him from it, and when theway was clear the mob surged on after its prey Clerambault followed it with his eyes; the sound of his ownvoice was still in his ears, he did not feel proud of himself

From that day on he went out less; he distrusted himself, but he continued to stimulate his intoxication athome, where he felt himself safe, little knowing the virulence of the plague The infection came in through thecracks of the doors, at the windows, on the printed page, in every contact The most sensitive breathe it in onfirst entering the city, before they have seen or read anything; with others a passing touch is enough, thedisease will develop afterwards alone Clerambault, withdrawn from the crowd, had caught the contagionfrom it, and the evil announced itself by the usual premonitory symptoms This affectionate tender-heartedman hated, loved to hate His intelligence, which had always been thoroughly straightforward, tried now totrick itself secretly, to justify its instincts of hatred by inverted reasoning He learned to be passionately unjustand false, for he wanted to persuade himself that he could accept the fact of war, and participate in it, withoutrenouncing his pacifism of yesterday, his humanitarianism of the day before, and his constant optimism Itwas not plain sailing, but there is nothing that the brain cannot attain to When its master thinks it absolutelynecessary to get rid for a time of principles which are in his way, it finds in these same principles the

exception which violates them while confirming the rule Clerambault began to construct a thesis, an

ideal absurd enough in which these contradictions could be reconciled: War against War, War for Peace, foreternal Peace

The enthusiasm of his son was a great help to him Maxime had enlisted His generation was carried away on

a wave of heroic joy; they had waited so long they had not dared to expect an opportunity for action andsacrifice

Older men who had never tried to understand them, stood amazed; they remembered their own commonplace,bungling youth, full of petty egotisms, small ambitions, and mean pleasures As they could not recognisethemselves in their children they attributed to the war this flowering of virtues which had been growing up fortwenty years around their indifference and which the war was about to reap Even near a father as

large-minded as Clerambault, Maxime was blighted Clerambault was interested in spreading his own

overflowing diffuse nature, too much so to see clearly and aid those whom he loved: he brought to them thewarm shadow of his thought, but he stood between them and the sun

These young people sought employment for their strength which really embarrassed them, but they did notfind it in the ideals of the noblest among their elders; the humanitarianism of a Clerambault was too vague, itcontented itself with pleasant hopes, without risk or vigour, which the quietude of a generation grown old inthe talkative peace of Parliaments and Academies, alone could have permitted Except as an oratorical

exercise it had never tried to foresee the perils of the future, still less had it thought to determine its attitude inthe day when the danger should be near It had not the strength to make a choice between widely differingcourses of action One might be a patriot as well as an internationalist or build in imagination peace palaces or

super-dreadnoughts, for one longed to know, to embrace, and to love everything This languid Whitmanismmight have its aesthetic value, but its practical incoherence offered no guide to young people when they foundthemselves at the parting of the ways They pawed the ground trembling with impatience at all this uncertaintyand the uselessness of their time as it went by.

They welcomed the war, for it put an end to all this indecision, it chose for them, and they made haste tofollow it "We go to our death, so be it; but to go is life." The battalions went off singing, thrilling withimpatience, dahlias in their hats, the muskets adorned with flowers Discharged soldiers re-enlisted; boys puttheir names down, their mothers urging them to it; you would have thought they were setting out for theOlympian games

It was the same with the young men on the other side of the Rhine, and there as here, they were escorted bytheir gods: Country, Justice, Right, Liberty, Progress of the World, Eden-like dreams of re-born humanity, awhole phantasmagoria of mystic ideas in which young men shrouded their passions None doubted that hiscause was the right one, they left discussion to others, themselves the living proof, for he who gives his lifeneeds no further argument

The older men however who stayed behind, had not their reasons for ceasing to reason Their brains weregiven to them to be used, not for truth, but for victory Since in the wars of today, in which entire peoples areengulfed, thoughts as well as guns are enrolled They slay the soul, they reach beyond the seas, and destroyafter centuries have passed Thought is the heavy artillery which works from a distance Naturally

Clerambault aimed his pieces, also the question for him was no longer to see clearly, largely, to take in thehorizon, but to sight the enemy, it gave him the illusion that he was helping his son

With an unconscious and feverish bad faith kept up by his affection, he sought in everything that he saw,heard, or read, for arguments to prop up his will to believe in the holiness of the cause, for everything whichwent to prove that the enemy alone had wanted war, was the sole enemy of peace, and that to make war on theenemy was really to wish for peace

There was proof enough and to spare; there always is; all that is needed is to know when to open and shutyour eyes But nevertheless Clerambault was not entirely satisfied These half-truths, or truths with false tails

to them, produced a secret uneasiness in the conscience of this honest man, showing itself in a passionateirritation against the enemy, which grew more and more On the same lines like two buckets in a well, onegoing up as the other goes down his patriotic enthusiasm grew and drowned the last torments of his mind in asalutary intoxication

From now on he was on the watch for the smallest newspaper items in support of his theory; and though heknew what to think of the veracity of these sheets, he did not doubt them for an instant when their assertionsfed his eager restless passion Where the enemy was concerned he adopted the principle, that the worst is sure

to be true and he was almost grateful to Germany when, by acts of cruelty and repeated violations of justice,she furnished him the solid confirmation of the sentence which, for greater security, he had pronounced inadvance

Germany gave him full measure Never did a country at war seem more anxious to raise the universal

conscience against her This apoplectic nation bursting with strength, threw itself upon its adversary in adelirium of pride, anger and fear The human beast let loose, traced a ring of systematic horror around himfrom the first All his instinctive and acquired brutalities were cleverly excited by those who held him in leash,

by his official chiefs, his great General Staff, his enrolled professors, his army chaplains War has alwaysbeen, will forever remain, a crime; but Germany organised it as she did everything She made a code formurder and conflagration, and over it all she poured the boiling oil of an enraged mysticism, made up ofBismarck, of Nietzsche, and of the Bible In order to crush the world and regenerate it, the Super-Man andChrist were mobilised The regeneration began in Belgium a thousand years from now men will tell of it The

affrighted world looked on at the infernal spectacle of the ancient civilisation of Europe, more than twothousand years old, crumbling under the savage expert blows of the great nation which formed its advanceguard Germany, rich in intelligence, in science and in power, in a fortnight of war became docile and

degraded; but what the organisers of this Germanic frenzy failed to foresee was that, like army cholera, itwould spread to the other camp, and once installed in the hostile countries it could not be dislodged until ithad infected the whole of Europe, and rendered it uninhabitable for centuries In all the madness of thisatrocious war, in all its violence, Germany set the example Her big body, better fed, more fleshly than others,offered a greater target to the attacks of the epidemic It was terrible; but by the time the evil began to abatewith her, it had penetrated elsewhere and under the form of a slow tenacious disease it ate to the very bone Tothe insanities of German thinkers, speakers in Paris and everywhere were not slow to respond with theirextravagances; they were like the heroes in Homer; but if they did not fight, they screamed all the louder.They insulted not only the adversary, they insulted his father, his grandfather, and his entire race; better stillthey denied his past The tiniest academician worked furiously to diminish the glory of the great men asleep inthe peace of the grave

Clerambault listened and listened, absorbed, though he was one of the few French poets who before the warhad European relations and whose work would have been appreciated in Germany He spoke no foreignlanguage, it is true; petted old child of France that he was, who would not take the trouble to visit otherpeople, sure that they would come to him But at least he welcomed them kindly, his mind was free fromnational prejudices, and the intuitions of his heart made up for his lack of instruction and caused him to pourout without stint his admiration for foreign genius But now that he had been warned to distrust everything, bythe constant: "Keep still, take care," and knew that Kant led straight to Krupp, he dared admire nothingwithout official sanction The sympathetic modesty that caused him in times of peace to accept with therespect due to words of Holy Writ the publications of learned and distinguished men, now in the war took onthe proportions of a fabulous credulity He swallowed without a gulp the strange discoveries made at this time

by the intellectuals of his country, treading under foot the art, the intelligence, the science of the enemythroughout the centuries; an effort frantically disingenuous, which denied all genius to our adversary, andeither found in its highest claims to glory the mark of its present infamy or rejected its achievements

altogether and bestowed them on another race

Clerambault was overwhelmed, beside himself, but (though he did not admit it), in his heart he was glad

Seeking for someone to share in his excitement and keep it up by fresh arguments, he went to his friendPerrotin

Hippolyte Perrotin was of one of those types, formerly the pride of the higher instruction in France but seldommet with in these days a great humanist Led by a wide and sagacious curiosity, he walked calmly throughthe garden of the centuries, botanising as he went The spectacle of the present was the object least worthy ofhis attention, but he was too keen an observer to miss any of it, and knew how to draw it gently back intoscale to fit into the whole picture Events which others regarded as most important were not so in his eyes, andpolitical agitations appeared to him like bugs on a rose-bush which he would carefully study with its parasites.This was to him a constant source of delight He had the finest appreciation of shades of literary beauty, andhis learning rather increased than impaired the faculty, giving to his thought an infinite range of

highly-flavoured experiences to taste and compare He belonged to the great French tradition of learned men,master writers from Buffon to Renan and Gaston Pâris Member of the Academy and of several Classes, hisextended knowledge gave him a superiority, not only of pure and classic taste, but of a liberal modern spirit,over his colleagues, genuine men of letters He did not think himself exempt from study, as most of them did,

as soon as they had passed the threshold of the sacred Cupola; old profesor as he was, he still went to school.When Clerambault was still unknown to the rest of the Immortals, except to one or two brother poets whomentioned him as little as possible with a disdainful smile, Perrotin had already discovered and placed him inhis collection, struck by certain pictures, an original phraseology, the mechanism of his imagination, primitiveyet complicated by simplicity All this attracted him, and then the man interested him too He sent a short

complimentary note to Clerambault who came to thank him, overflowing with gratitude, and ties of friendshipwere formed between the two men They had few points of resemblance; Clerambault had lyrical gifts andordinary intelligence dominated by his feelings, and Perrotin was gifted with a most lucid mind, never

hampered by flights of the imagination What they had in common were dignity of life, intellectual probity,and a disinterested love of art and learning, for its own sake, and not for success None the less as may beseen, this had not prevented Perrotin from getting on in the world; honours and places had sought him, not hethem; but he did not reject them; he neglected nothing

Clerambault found him busy unwinding the wrappings with which the readers of centuries had covered overthe original thought of a Chinese philosopher At this game which was habitual with him, he came naturally tothe discovery of the contrary of what appeared at first to be the meaning; passing from hand to hand the idolhad become black

Perrotin received Clerambault in this vein, polite, but a trifle absent-minded Even when he listened to societygossip he was inwardly critical, tickling his sense of humour at its expense

Clerambault spread his new acquisitions before him, starting from the recognised unworthiness of the

enemy-nation as from a certain, well-known fact; the whole question being to decide if one should see in thisthe irremediable decadence of a great people, or the proof, pure and simple, of a barbarism which had alwaysexisted, but hidden from sight Clerambault inclined to the latter explanation, and full of his recent

information he held Luther, Kant and Wagner responsible for the violation of Belgian neutrality, and thecrimes of the German army He, however, to use a colloquial expression, had never been to see for himself,being neither musician, theologian, or metaphysician He trusted to the word of Academicians, and only madeexceptions in favour of Beethoven, who was Flemish, and Goethe, citizen of a free city and almost a

Strassburger, which is half French, or French and a half He paused for approbation

He was surprised not to find in Perrotin an ardour corresponding to his own His friend smiled, listened,contemplated Clerambault with an attentive and benevolent curiosity He did not say no, but he did not sayyes, either, and to some assertions he made prudent reservations When Clerambault, much moved, quotedstatements signed by two or three of Perrotin's illustrious colleagues, the latter made a slight gesture as much

as to say: "Ah, you don't say so!"

Clerambault grew hotter and hotter, and Perrotin then changed his attitude, showing a keen interest in thejudicious remarks of his good friend, nodding his head at every word, answering direct questions by vaguephrases, assenting amiably as one does to someone whom one cannot contradict

Clerambault went away out of countenance and discontented, but a few days later he was reassured as to hisfriend, when he read Perrotin's name on a violent protestation of the Academies against the barbarians Hewrote to congratulate him, and Perrotin thanked him in a few prudent and sibylline words:

"DEAR SIR," he affected in writing the studied, ceremonious formulas of _Monsieur de Port-Royal_ "I amready to obey any suggestions of my country, for me they are commands My conscience is at her service,according to the duty of every good citizen."

One of the most curious effects of the war on the mind, was that it aroused new affinities between individuals.People who up to this time had not a thought in common discovered all at once that they thought alike; andthis resemblance drew them together It was what people called "the Sacred Union." Men of all parties andtemperaments, the choleric, the phlegmatic, monarchists, anarchists, clericals, Calvinists, suddenly forgot theireveryday selves, their passions, their fads and their antipathies, shed their skins And there before you werenow creatures, grouped in an unforeseen manner, like metal filings round an invisible magnet All the oldcategories had momentarily disappeared, and no one was astonished to find himself closer to the stranger ofyesterday than to a friend of many years' standing It seemed as if, underground, souls met by secret roots that

stretched through the night of instinct, that unknown region, where observation rarely ventures For ourpsychology stops at that part of self which emerges from the soil, noting minutely individual differences, butforgetting that this is only the top of the plant, that nine-tenths are buried, the feet held by those of otherplants This profound, or lower, region of the soul is ordinarily below the threshold of consciousness, the mindfeels nothing of it; but the war, by waking up this underground life, revealed moral relationships which no onehad suspected A sudden intimacy showed itself between Clerambault and a brother of his wife whom he hadlooked upon until now, and with good reason, as the type of a perfect Philistine.

Leo Camus was not quite fifty years old He was tall, thin, and stooped a little; his skin was grey, his beardblack, not much hair on his head, you could see the bald spots under his hat behind, little wrinkles

everywhere, cutting into each other, crossing, like a badly-made net; add to this a frowning, sulky expression,and a perpetual cold in the head For thirty years he had been employed by the State, and his life had passed inthe shadow of a court-yard at the Department In the course of years he had changed rooms, but not shadows;

he was promoted, but always in the court-yard, never would he leave it in this life He was now

Under-Secretary, which enabled him to throw a shadow in his turn The public and he had few points ofcontact, and he only communicated with the outside world across a rampart of pasteboard boxes and piles ofdocuments He was an old bachelor without friends, and he held the misanthropical opinion that disinterestedfriendship did not exist upon earth He felt no affection except for his sister's family, and the only way that heshowed that was by finding fault with everything that they did He was one of those people whose uneasysolicitude causes them to blame those they love when they are ill, and obstinately prove to them that theysuffer by their own fault

At the Clerambaults no one minded him very much Madame Clerambault was so easy-going that she ratherliked being pushed about in this way, and as for the children, they knew that these scoldings were sweetened

by little presents; so they pocketed the presents and let the rest go by

The conduct of Leo Camus towards his brother-in-law had varied with time When his sister had marriedClerambault, Camus had not hesitated to find fault with the match; an unknown poet did not seem to him

"serious" enough Poetry unknown poetry is a pretext for not working; when one is "known," of course that

is quite another thing; Camus held Hugo in high esteem, and could even recite verses from the "Châtiments,"

or from Auguste Barbier They were "known," you see, and that made all the difference Just at this timeClerambault himself became "known," Camus read about him one day in his favourite paper, and after that heconsented to read Clerambault's poems He did not understand them, but he bore them no ill will on thataccount He liked to call himself old-fashioned, it made him feel superior, and there are many in the world likehim, who pride themselves on their lack of comprehension For we must all plume ourselves as we can; some

of us on what we have, others on what we have not

Camus was willing to admit that Clerambault could write He knew something of the art himself, and hisrespect for his brother-in-law increased in proportion to the "puffs" he read in the papers, and he liked to chatwith him He had always appreciated his affectionate kind-heartedness, though he never said so, and whatpleased also in this great poet, for great he was now, was his manifest incapacity, and practical ignorance ofbusiness matters; on this ground Camus was his superior, and did not hesitate to show it Clerambault had asimple-hearted confidence in his fellow-man, and nothing could have been better suited to Camus' aggressivepessimism, which it kept in working order The greater part of his visits was spent in reducing Clerambault'sillusions to fragments, but they had as many lives as a cat, and every time he came it had to be done overagain This irritated Camus, but secretly pleased him for he needed a pretext constantly renewed to think theworld bad, and men a set of imbeciles Above all he had no mercy on politicians; this Government employeehated Governments, though he would have been puzzled to say what he would put in their places The onlyform of politics that he understood was opposition He suffered from a spoiled life and thwarted nature Hewas a peasant's son and born to raise grapes, or else to exercise his authoritative instincts over the field

labourers, like a watch-dog Unfortunately, diseases of the vines interfered and also the pride of a quill-driver;the family moved to town, and now he would have felt it a derogation to return to his real nature, which was

too much atrophied, even if he had wished it Not having found his true place in society, he blamed the socialorder, serving it, as do millions of functionaries, like a bad servant, an underhand enemy.

A mind of this sort, peevish, bitter, misanthropical, it seems would have been driven crazy by the war, but onthe contrary it served to tranquilise it When the herd draws itself together in arms against the stranger it is afall for those rare free spirits who love the whole world, but it raises the many who weakly vegetate in

anarchistic egotism, and lifts them to that higher stage of organised selfishness Camus woke up all at once,with the feeling that for the first time he was not alone in the world

Patriotism is perhaps the only instinct under present conditions which escapes the withering touch of

every-day life All other instincts and natural aspirations, the legitimate need to love and act in social life, arestifled, mutilated and forced to pass under the yoke of denial and compromise When a man reaches middlelife and turns to look back, he sees these desires marked with his failures and his cowardice; the taste is bitter

on his tongue, he is ashamed of them and of himself Patriotism alone has remained outside, unemployed butnot tarnished, and when it re-awakes it is inviolate The soul embraces and lavishes on it the ardour of all theambitions, the loves, and the longings, that life has disappointed A half century of suppressed fire burstsforth, millions of little cages in the social prison open their doors At last! Long enchained instincts stretchtheir stiffened limbs, cry out and leap into the open air, as of right right, do I say? it is now their duty to pressforward all together like a falling mass The isolated snow-flakes turned avalanche

Camus was carried away, the little bureaucrat found himself part of it all and without fury or futile violence hefelt only a calm strength All was "well" with him, well in mind, well in body He had no more insomnia, andfor the first time in years his stomach gave him no trouble because he had forgotten all about it He even gotthrough the winter without taking cold something that had never been heard of before He ceased to find faultwith everything and everybody, he no longer railed at all that was done or undone, for now he was filled with

a sacred pity for the entire social body that body, now his, but stronger, better, and more beautiful He felt afraternal bond with all those who formed part of it by their close union, like a swarm of bees hanging from abranch, and envied the younger men who went to defend it When Maxime gaily prepared to go, his unclegazed at him tenderly, and when the train left carrying away the young men, he turned and threw his armsround Clerambault, then shook hands with unknown parents who had come to see their sons off, with tears ofemotion and joy in his eyes In that moment Camus was ready to give up everything he possessed It was hishoney-moon with Life this solitary starved soul saw her as she passed and seized her in his arms Yes, Lifepasses, the euphoria of a Camus cannot last forever, but he who has known it lives only in the memory of it,and in the hope that it may return War brought this gift, therefore Peace is an enemy, and enemies are allthose who desire it

Clerambault and Camus exchanged ideas, and to such an extent that finally Clerambault could not tell whichwere his own, and as he lost footing he felt more strongly the need to act; for action was a kind of justification

to himself Whom did he wish to justify? Alas, it was Camus! In spite of his habitual ardour and convictions

he was a mere echo and of what unhappy voices

He began to write Hymns to Battle There was great competition in this line among poets who did not fightthemselves But there was little danger that their productions would clog men's memories in future ages, fornothing in their previous career had prepared these unfortunates for such a task In vain they raised theirvoices and exhausted all the resources of French rhetoric, the "poilus" only shrugged their shoulders

However people in the rear liked them much better than the stories written in the dark and covered with mud,that came out of the trenches The visions of a Barbusse had not yet dawned to show the truth to these

talkative shadows There was no difficulty for Clerambault, he shone in these eloquent contests For he hadthe fatal gift of verbal and rhythmical facility which separates poets from reality, wrapping them as if in aspider's web In times of peace this harmless web hung on the bushes, the wind blowing through it, and thegood-natured Arachne caught nothing but light in her meshes Nowadays, however, the poets cultivated their

carniverous instincts fortunately rather out of date and hidden at the bottom of their web one could catchsight of a nasty little beast with an eye fixed on the prey They sang of hatred and holy butchery, and

Clerambault did as they did, even better, for he had more voice And, by dint of screaming, this worthy manended by feeling passions that he knew nothing of He learned to "know" hatred at last, know in the Biblicalsense, and it only roused in him that base pride that an undergraduate feels when for the first time he findshimself coming out of a brothel

Now he was a man, and in fact he needed nothing more, he had fallen as low as the others

Camus well deserved and enjoyed the first taste of each one of these poems and they made him neigh withenthusiasm, for he recognised himself in them Clerambault was flattered, thinking he had touched the popularstring The brothers-in-law spent their evenings alone together Clerambault read, Camus drank in his verses;

he knew them by heart, and told everyone who would listen to him that Hugo had come to life again, and thateach of these poems was worth a victory His noisy admiration made it unnecessary for the other members ofthe family to express their opinion Under some excuse, Rosine regularly made a practice of leaving the roomwhen the reading was over Clerambault felt it, and would have liked to ask his daughter's opinion, but found

it more prudent not to put the question He preferred to persuade himself that Rosine's emotion and timidityput her to flight He was vexed all the same, but the approval of the outside world healed this slight wound

His poems appeared in the bourgeois papers, and proved the most striking success of Clerambault's career, for

no other work of his had raised such unanimous admiration A poet is always pleased to have it said that hislast work is his best, all the more when he knows that it is inferior to the others

Clerambault knew it perfectly well, but he swallowed all the fawning reviews of the press with infantilevanity In the evening he made Camus read them aloud in the family circle, beaming with joy as he listened.When it was over he nearly shouted:

"Encore!"

In this concert of praise one slightly flat note came from Perrotin (Undoubtedly he had been much deceived

in him, he was not a true friend.) The old scholar to whom Clerambault had sent a copy of his poems did notfail to congratulate him politely, praising his great talent, but he did not say that this was his finest work; heeven urged him, "after having offered his tribute to the warlike Muse, to produce now a work of pure

imagination detached from the present." What could he mean? When an artist submits his work for yourapproval, is it proper to say to him: "I should prefer to read another one quite different from this?" This was afresh sign to Clerambault of the sadly lukewarm patriotism that he had already noticed in Perrotin This lack

of comprehension chilled his feeling towards his old friend The war, he thought, was the great test of

characters, it revised all values, and tried out friendships And he thought that the loss of Perrotin was

balanced by the gain of Camus, and many new friends, plain people, no doubt, but simple and warm-hearted.Sometimes at night he had moments of oppression, he was uneasy, wakeful, discontented, ashamed; but ofwhat? Had he not done his duty?

The first letters from Maxime were a comforting cordial; the first drops dissipated every discouragement, andthey all lived on them in long intervals when no news came In spite of the agony of these silences, when anysecond might be fatal to the loved one, his perfect confidence (exaggerated perhaps, through affection, orsuperstition) communicated itself to them all His letters were running over with youth and exuberant joy,which reached its climax in the days that followed the victory of the Marne The whole family yearned

towards him as one; like a plant the summit of which bathes in the light, stretching up to it in a rapture ofmystic adoration

People who but yesterday were soft and torpid, expanded under the extraordinary light when fate threw theminto the infernal vortex of the war, the light of Death, the game with Death; Maxime, a spoiled child, delicate,

overparticular, who in ordinary times took care of himself like a fine lady, found an unexpected flavour in theprivations and trials of his new life, and wondering at himself he boasted of it in his charming, vaingloriousletters which delighted the hearts of his parents.

Neither affected to be cast in the mould of one of Corneille's heroes, and the thought of immolating their child

on the altar of a barbaric idea would have filled them with horror; but the transfiguration of their petted boysuddenly become a hero, touched them with a tenderness never before felt In spite of their anxiety, Maxime'senthusiasm intoxicated them, and it made them ungrateful toward their former life, that peaceful affectionateexistence, with its long monotonous days Maxime was amusingly contemptuous of it, calling it absurd afterone had seen what was going on "out there."

"Out there" one was glad to sleep three hours on the hard ground, or once in a month of Sundays on a wisp ofstraw, glad to turn out at three o'clock in the morning and warm up by marching thirty kilometres with aknapsack on one's back, sweating freely for eight or ten hours at a time Glad above all to get in touch withthe enemy, and rest a little lying down under a bank, while one peppered the boches This young Cyranodeclared that fighting rested you after a march, and when he described an engagement you would have saidthat he was at a concert or a "movie."

The rhythm of the shells, the noise when they left the gun and when they burst, reminded him of the passagewith cymbals in the divine scherzo of the Ninth Symphony When he heard overhead as from an airy

music-box the buzzing of these steel mosquitoes, mischievous, imperious, angry, treacherous, or simply full

of amiable carelessness, he felt like a street boy rushing out to see a fire No more fatigue; mind and body onthe alert; and when came the long-awaited order "Forward!" one jumped to one's feet, light as a feather, andran to the nearest shelter under the hail of bullets, glad to be in the open, like a hound on the scent Youcrawled on your hands and knees, or on your stomach, you ran all bent doubled-up, or did Swedish

gymnastics through the underbrush that made up for not being able to walk straight; and when it grew darkyou said: "What, night already? What have we been doing with ourselves, today?" "In conclusion," saidthis little French cockerel, "the only tiresome thing in war is what you do in peace-time, you walk along thehigh road."

This was the way these young men talked in the first month of the campaign, all soldiers of the Marne, of war

in the open If this had gone on, we should have seen once more the race of barefooted Revolutionaries, whoset out to conquer the world and could not stop themselves

They were at last forced to stop, and from the moment that they were put to soak in the trenches, the tonechanged Maxime lost his spirit, his boyish carelessness From day to day he grew virile, stoical, obstinate andnervous He still vouched for the final victory, but ceased after a while to talk of it, and wrote only of duty to

be done, then even that stopped, and his letters became dull, grey, tired-out

Enthusiasm had not diminished behind the lines, and Clerambault persisted in vibrating like an organ pipe, butMaxime no longer gave back the echo he sought to evoke

All at once, without warning, Maxime came home for a week's leave He stopped on the stairs, for though heseemed more robust than formerly, his legs felt heavy, and he was soon tired He waited a moment to breathe,for he was moved, and then went up His mother came to the door at his ring, screaming at the sight of him.Clerambault who was pacing up and down the apartment in the weariness of the long waiting, cried out too as

he ran It was a tremendous row

After a few minutes there was a truce to embraces and inarticulate exclamations Pushed into a chair by thewindow with his face to the light, Maxime gave himself up to their delighted eyes They were in ecstasiesover his complexion, his cheeks more filled out, his healthy look His father threw his arms around himcalling him "My Hero" but Maxime sat with his fingers twitching nervously, and could not get out a word

At table they feasted their eyes on him, hung on every word, but he said very little The excitement of hisfamily had checked his first impetus, but luckily they did not notice it, and attributed his silence to fatigue or

to hunger Clerambault talked enough for two; telling Maxime about life in the trenches Good mother Paulinewas transformed into a Cornelia, out of Plutarch, and Maxime looked at them, ate, looked again A gulf hadopened between them

When after dinner they all went back to his father's study, and they saw him comfortably established with acigar, he had to try and satisfy these poor waiting people So he quietly began to tell them how his time waspassed, with a certain proud reserve and leaving out tragical pictures They listened in trembling expectation,and when he had finished they were still expectant Then on their side came a shower of questions, to whichMaxime's replies were short soon he fell silent Clerambault to wake up the "young rascal" tried severaljovial thrusts

"Come now, tell us about some of your engagements It must be fine to see such joy, such sacred fire Lord,but I would like to see all that, I would like to be in your place."

"You can see all these fine things better from where you are," said Maxime Since he had been in the trenches

he had not seen a fight, hardly set eyes on a German, his view was bounded by mud and water but theywould not believe him, they thought he was talking "contrariwise" as he did when he was a child

"You old humbug," said his father, laughing gaily, "What does happen then all day long in your trenches?"

"We take care of ourselves; kill time, the worst enemy of all."

Clerambault slapped him amicably on the back

"Time is not the only one you kill?" Maxime drew away, saw the kind, curious glances of his father andmother, and answered:

"Please talk of something else," and added after a pause:

"Will you do something for me? don't ask me any more questions today."

They agreed rather surprised, but they supposed that he needed care, being so tired, and they overwhelmedhim with attentions Clerambault, however, could not refrain from breaking out every minute or two in

apostrophes, demanding his son's approbation His speeches resounded with the word "Liberty." Maximesmiled faintly and looked at Rosine, for the attitude of the young girl was singular When her brother came inshe threw her arms round his neck, but since she had kept in the background, one might have said aloof Shehad taken no part in her parents' questions, and far from inviting confidence from Maxime she seemed toshrink from it He felt the same awkwardness, and avoided being alone with her But still they had never feltcloser to each other in spirit, they could not have borne to say why

Maxime had to be shown to all the neighbours, and by way of amusement he was taken out for a walk In spite

of her mourning, Paris again wore a smiling face; poverty and pain were hidden at home, or at the bottom ofher proud heart; but the perpetual Fair in the streets and in the press showed its mask of contentment

The people in the cafés and the tea-rooms were ready to hold out for twenty years, if necessary Maxime andhis family sat in a tea-shop at a little table, gay chatter and the perfume of women all about him Through it hesaw the trench where he had been bombarded for twenty-six days on end, unable to stir from the sticky ditchfull of corpses which rose around him like a wall His mother laid her hand on his, he woke, saw the

affectionate questioning glances of his people, and self-reproached for making them uneasy, he smiled andbegan to look about and talk gaily His boyish high spirits came back, and the shadow cleared away from

Clerambault's face; he glanced simply and gratefully at Maxime.

His alarms were not at an end, however As they left the tea-shop he leaning on the arm of his son they met

a military funeral There were wreaths and uniforms, a member of the Institute with his sword between hislegs, and brass instruments braying out an heroic lamentation

The crowd drew respectfully to either side, Clerambault stopped and pointedly took off his hat, while with hisleft hand he pressed Maxime's arm yet closer to his side Feeling him tremble, he turned towards his son, andthought he had a strange look Supposing that he was overcome he tried to draw him away, but Maxime didnot stir, he was so much taken aback

"A dead man," he thought "All that for one dead man! and out there we walk over them Five hundred a day

on the roll, that's the normal ration."

Hearing a sneering little laugh, Clerambault was frightened and pulled him by the arm

"Come away!" he said, and they moved on

"If they could see," said Maxime to himself, "if they could only see! their whole society would go to

pieces, but they will always be blind, they do not want to see "

His eyes, cruelly sharpened now, saw the adversary all around him, in the carelessness of the world, itsstupidity, its egotism, its luxury, in the "I don't give a damn!", the indecent profits of the war, the enjoyment

of it, the falseness down to the roots All these sheltered people, shirkers, police, with their insolent autosthat looked like cannon, their women booted to the knee, with scarlet mouths, and cruel little candy faces they are all satisfied all is for the best! "It will go on forever as it is!" Half the world devouring the otherhalf

They went home In the evening after dinner Clerambault was dying to read his latest poem to Maxime Theidea of it was touching, if a little absurd. In his love for his son, he sought to be in spirit, at least, the comrade

of his glory and his sufferings, and he had described them, at a distance in "Dawn in the Trenches." Twice

he got up to look for the MS., but with the sheets in his hand a sort of shyness paralysed him, and he wentback without them

As the days went by they felt themselves closely knit together by ties of the flesh, but their souls were out oftouch Neither would admit it though each knew it well

A sadness was between them, but they refused to see the real cause, and preferred to ascribe it to the

approaching reparation From time to time the father or the mother made a fresh attempt to re-open the

sources of intimacy, but each time came the same disappointment Maxime saw that he had no longer any way

of communicating with them, with anyone in the rear They lived in different worlds could they everunderstand each other again? Yet still he understood them, for once he had himself undergone the influencewhich weighed on them, and had only come to his senses "out there," in contact with real suffering and death.But just because he had been touched himself, he knew the impossibility of curing the others by process ofreasoning; so he let them talk, silent himself, smiling vaguely, assenting to be knew not what The

preoccupations here behind the lines filled him with disgust, weariness, and a profound pity for these people

in the rear a strange race to him, with the outcries of the papers, questions from such persons old buffoons,worn-out, damaged politicians! patriotic braggings, written-up strategies, anxieties about black bread, sugarcards, or the days when the confectioners were shut He took refuge in a mysterious silence, smiling and sad;and only went out occasionally, when he thought of the short time he had to be with these dear people wholoved him Then he would begin to talk with the utmost animation about anything The important thing was tomake a noise, since one could no longer speak one's real thoughts, and naturally he fell back on everyday

matters Questions of general interest and political news came first, but they might as well have read themorning paper aloud "The Crushing of the Huns," "The Triumph of the Right," filled Clerambault's thoughts

and speeches, while he served as acolyte, and filled in the pauses with cum spiritu tuo All the time each was

waiting for the other to begin to talk

They waited so long that the end of his leave came A little while before he went, Maxime came into hisfather's study resolved to explain himself:

"Papa, are you quite sure?"

The trouble painted on Clerambault's face checked the words on his lips He had pity on him and asked if hisfather was quite sure at what time the train was to leave and Clerambault heard the end of the question with anonly too visible relief When he had supplied all the information that Maxime did not listen to he mountedhis oratorical hobby-horse again and started out with one of his habitual idealistic declamations Maxime heldhis peace, discouraged, and for the last hour they spoke only of trifles All but the mother felt that the essentialhad not been uttered; only light and confident words, an apparent excitement, but a deep sigh in the

heart "My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken us?"

When Maxime left he was really glad to go back to the front The gulf that he had found between the front andrear seemed to him deeper than the trenches, and guns did not appear to him as murderous as ideas

As the railway carriage drew out of the station he leaned from the window and followed with his eyes thetearful faces of his family fading in the distance, and he thought:

"Poor dears, you are their victims and we are yours."

The day after his return to the front the great spring offensive was let loose, which the talkative newspapershad announced to the enemy several weeks beforehand The hopes of the nation had been fed on it during thegloomy winter of waiting and death, and it rose now, filled with an impatient joy, sure of victory and cryingout to it "At last!"

The first news seemed good; of course it spoke only of the enemy's losses, and all faces brightened Parentswhose sons, women whose husbands were "out there" were proud that their flesh and their love had a part inthis sanguinary feast; and in their exaltation they hardly stopped to think that their dear one might be amongthe victims The excitement ran so high that Clerambault, an affectionate, tender father, generally most

anxious for those he loved, was actually afraid that his son had not got back in time for "The Dance." Hewanted him to be there, his eager wishes pushed, thrust him into the abyss, making this sacrifice, disposing ofhis son and of his life, without asking if he himself agreed He and his had ceased to belong to themselves Hecould not conceive that it should be otherwise with any of them The obscure will of the ant-heap had eatenhim up

Sometimes taken unawares, the remains of his self-analytical habit of mind would appear; like a sensitivenerve that is touched, a dull blow, a quiver of pain, it is gone, and we forget it

At the end of three weeks the exhausted offensive was still pawing the ground of the same blood-soakedkilometres, and the newspapers began to distract public attention, putting it on a fresh scent Nothing had beenheard from Maxime since he left They sought for the ordinary reasons for delay which the mind furnishesreadily but the heart cannot accept Another week went by Among themselves each of the three pretended to

be confident, but at night, each one alone in his room, the heart cried out in agony, and the whole day long theear was strained to catch every step on the stair, the nerves stretched to the breaking point at a ring of the bell,

or the touch of a hand passing the door

The first official news of the losses began to come in; several families among Clerambault's friends alreadyknew which of their men were dead and which wounded Those who had lost all, envied those who couldhave their loved ones back, though bleeding, perhaps mutilated Many sank into the night of their grief; forthem the war and life were equally over But with others the exaltation of the early days persisted strangely;Clerambault saw one mother wrought up by her patriotism and her grief to the point that she almost rejoiced

at the death of her son "I have given my all, my all!" she would say, with a violent, concentrated joy such as

is felt in the last second before extinction by a woman who drowns herself with the man she loves

Clerambault however was weaker, and waking from his dizziness he thought:

"I too have given all, even what was not my own."

He inquired of the military authorities, but they knew nothing as yet Ten days later came the news thatSergeant Clerambault was reported as missing from the night of the 27-28th of the preceding month

Clerambault could get no further details at the Paris bureaus; therefore he set out for Geneva, went to the RedCross, the Agency for Prisoners, could find nothing; followed up every clue, got permission to questioncomrades of his son in hospitals or depots behind the lines They all gave contradictory information; one said

he was a prisoner, another had seen him dead, and both the next day admitted that they had been mistaken Oh! tortures! God of vengeance! He came back after a fortnight from this Way of the Cross, aged,

broken-down, exhausted

He found his wife in a paroxysm of frantic grief, which in this good-natured creature had turned to a furioushatred of the enemy; she cried out for revenge, and for the first time Clerambault did not answer He had notstrength enough to hate, he could only suffer

He shut himself into his room During that frightful ten days' pilgrimage he had scarcely looked his thoughts

in the face, hypnotised as he was, day and night by one idea, like a dog on a scent, faster! go faster! Theslowness of carriages and trains consumed him, and once, when he had taken a room for the night, he rushedaway the same evening, without stopping to rest This fever of haste and expectation devoured everything, andmade consecutive thought impossible, which was his salvation Now that the chase was ended, his mind,exhausted and dying, recovered its powers

Clerambault knew certainly that Maxime was dead He had not told his wife, but had concealed some

information that destroyed all hope She was one of those people who absolutely must keep a gleam of

falsehood to lure them on, against all reason, until the first flood of grief is over Perhaps Clerambault himselfhad been one of them, but he was not so now; for he saw where this lure had led him He did not judge, hewas not yet able to form a judgment, lying in the darkness Too weak to rise, and feel about him, he was likesomeone who moves his crushed limbs after a fall, and with each stab of pain recovers consciousness of life,and tries to understand what has happened to him The stupid gulf of this death overcame him That thisbeautiful child, who had given them so much joy, cost them so much care, all this marvel of hope in flower,the priceless little world that is a young man, a tree of Jesse, future years all vanished in an hour! andwhy? why?

He was forced to try to persuade himself at least that it was for something great and necessary Clerambaultclung despairingly to this buoy during the succeeding nights, feeling that if his hold gave way he should gounder More than ever he insisted on the holiness of the cause; he would not even discuss it; but little by littlehis fingers slipped, he settled lower with every movement, for each new statement of the justice of his causeroused a voice in his conscience which said:

"Even if you were twenty thousand times more right in this struggle, is your justification worth the disasters itcosts? Does justice demand that millions of innocents should fall, a ransom for the sins and the errors ofothers? Is crime to be washed out by crime? or murder by murder? And must your sons be not only victimsbut accomplices, assassinated and assassins? "

He looked back at the last visit of his son, and reflected on their last talks together How many things wereclear to him now, which he had not understood at the time! Maxime's silence, the reproach in his eyes Theworst of all was when he recognised that he had understood, at the time, when his son was there, but that hewould not admit it.

This discovery, which had hung over him like a dark cloud for weeks, this realisation of inward

falsehood, crushed him to the earth

Until the actual crisis was upon them, Rosine Clerambault seemed thrown into the shade Her inward life wasunknown to the others, and almost to herself; even her father had scarcely a glimpse of it She had lived underthe wing of the warm, selfish, stifling family life, and had few friends or companions of her own age, for herparents stood between her and the world outside, and she had grown up in their shadow

As she grew older if she had wished to escape she would not have dared, would not have known how; for shewas shy outside the family circle, and could hardly move or talk; people thought her insignificant This sheknew; it wounded her self-respect, and therefore she went out as little as possible, preferring to stay at home,where she was simple, natural and taciturn This silence did not arise from slowness of thought, but from thechatter of the others As her father, mother, and brother were all exuberant talkers, this little person by a sort

of reaction, withdrew into herself, where she could talk freely

She was fair, tall, and boyishly slender, with pretty hair, the locks always straying over her cheeks Her mouthwas rather large and serious, the lower lip full at the corners, her eyes large, calm and vague, with fine

well-marked eyebrows She had a graceful chin, a pretty throat, an undeveloped figure, no hips; her handswere large and a little red, with prominent veins Anything would make her blush, and her girlish charm wasall in the forehead and the chin Her eyes were always asking and dreaming, but said little

Her father's preference was for her, just as her mother was drawn towards the son by natural affinity Withoutthinking much about it, Clerambault had always monopolised his daughter, surrounding her from childhoodwith his absorbing affection She had been partly educated by him, and with the almost offensive simplicity ofthe artist mind, he had taken her for the confidante of his inner life This was brought about by his

overflowing self-consciousness, and the little response that he found in his wife, a good creature, who, as thesaying is, sat at his feet, in fact stayed there permanently, answering yes to all that he said, admiring himblindly, without understanding him, or feeling the lack; the essential to her was not her husband's thought buthimself, his welfare, his comfort, his food, his clothing, his health Honest Clerambault in the gratitude of hisheart did not criticise his wife, any more than Rosine criticised her mother, but both of them knew how it was,instinctively, and were drawn closer by a secret tie Clerambault was not aware that in his daughter he hadfound the real wife of his heart and mind Nor did he begin to suspect it, till in these last days the war hadseemed to break the tacit accord between them Rosine's approval hitherto had bound her to him, and now all

at once it failed him She knew many things before he did, but shrank from the depths of the mystery; themind need not give warning to the heart, it knows

Strange, splendid mystery of love between souls, independent of social and even of natural laws Few there bethat know it, and fewer still that dare to reveal it; they are afraid of the coarse world and its summary

judgments and can get no farther than the plain meaning of traditional language In this conventional tongue,which is voluntarily inexact for the sake of social simplification, words are careful not to unveil, by

expressing them, the many shades of reality in its multiple forms They imprison it, codify it, drill it; theypress it into the service of the mind already domesticated; of that reasoning power which does not spring fromthe depth of the spirit, but from shallow, walled-in pools like the basins at Versailles within the limits ofconstituted society

In this somewhat legal phraseology love is bound to sex, age, and social classes; it is either natural or

unnatural, legitimate or the reverse But this is a mere trickle of water from the deep springs of love, which is

as the law of gravitation that keeps the stars in their courses, and cares nothing for the ways that we trace for

it This infinite love fulfils itself between souls far removed by time and space; across the centuries it unitesthe thoughts of the living and the dead; weaves close and chaste ties between old and young hearts; through it,friend is nearer to friend, the child is closer in spirit to the old man than are husband or wife in the wholecourse of their lives Between fathers and children these ties often exist unconsciously, and "the world" as ourforefathers used to say, counts so little in comparison with love eternal, that the positions are sometimesreversed, and the younger may not always be the most childlike How many sons are there who feel a devoutpaternal affection for an old mother? And do we not often see ourselves small and humble under the eyes of achild? The look with which the Bambino of Botticelli contemplates the innocent Virgin is heavy with a sadunconscious experience, and as old as the world

The affection of Clerambault and Rosine was of this sort; fine, religious, above the reach of reason That iswhy, in the depths of the troubled sea, below the pains and the conflicts of conscience caused by the war, asecret drama went on, without signs, almost without words, between these hearts united by a sacred love Thisunavowed sentiment explained the sensitiveness of their mutual reactions At first Rosine drew away insilence, disappointed in her affection, her secret worship tarnished, by the effect of the war on her father; shestood apart from him, like a little antique statue, chastely draped At once Clerambault became uneasy; his

sensibility sharpened by tenderness, felt instantly this Noli me tangere, and from this arose an unexpressed

estrangement between the father and daughter Words are so coarse, one would not dare to speak even in thepurest sense of disappointed love, but this inner discord, of which neither ever spoke a word, was pain to both

of them; made the young girl unhappy, and irritated Clerambault He knew the cause well enough, but hispride refused to admit it; though little by little he was not far from confessing that Rosine was right He wasready to humiliate himself, but his tongue was tied by false shame; and so the difference between their mindsgrew wider, while in their hearts each longed to yield

In the confusion that followed Maxime's death, this inward prayer pressed more on the one less able to resist.Clerambault was prostrated by his grief, his wife aimlessly busy, and Rosine was out all day at her war work.They only came together at meals But it happened that one evening after dinner Clerambault heard hermother violently scolding Rosine, who had spoken of wounded enemies whom she wanted to take care of.Madame Clerambault was as indignant as if her daughter had committed a crime, and appealed to her

husband His weary, vague, sad eyes had begun to see; he looked at Rosine who was silent, her head bent,waiting for his reply

"You are right, my little girl," he said

Rosine started and flushed, for she had not expected this; she raised her grateful eyes to his, and their lookseemed to say: "You have come back to me at last."

After the brief repast they usually separated; each to eat out his heart in solitude Clerambault sat before hiswriting-table and wept, his face hidden in his hands Rosine's look had pierced through to his suffering heart;his soul lost, stifled for so long, had come to be as it was before the war Oh, the look in her eyes!

He listened, wiping away his tears; his wife had locked herself into Maxime's room as she did every evening,and was folding and unfolding his clothes, arranging the things left behind He went into the room whereRosine sat alone by the window, sewing She was absorbed in thought, and did not hear him coming till hestood before her; till he laid his grey head on her shoulder and murmured: "My little girl."

Then her heart melted also She took the dear old head between her hands, with its rough hair, and answered:

"My dear father."

Neither needed to ask or to explain why he was there After a long silence, when he was calmer, he looked at

her and said:

"It seems as if I had waked up from a frightful dream." But she merely stroked his hair, without speaking

"You were watching over me, were you not? I saw it Were you unhappy?"

She just bowed her head not daring to look at him He stooped to kiss her hands, and raising his head hewhispered:

"My good angel You have saved me!"

When he had gone back to his room she stayed there without moving, filled with emotion, which kept her forlong, still, with drooping head, her hands clasped on her knees The waves of feeling that flowed through heralmost took away her breath Her heart was bursting with love, happiness, and shame The humility of herfather overcame her And all at once a passionate impulse of tender, filial piety broke the bonds whichparalysed her soul and body, as she stretched out her arms towards the absent, and threw herself at the foot ofher bed, thanking God, beseeching Him to give all the suffering to her, and happiness to the one she loved

The God to whom she prayed did not give ear; for it was on the head of this young girl that he poured thesweet sleep of forgetfulness; but Clerambault had to climb his Calvary to the end

Alone in his room, the lamp put out, in darkness, Clerambault looked within himself He was determined topierce to the bottom of his timid, lying soul which tried to hide itself On his head he could still feel thecoolness of his daughter's hand, which had effaced all his hesitation

He would face this monster Truth, though he were torn by its claws which never relax, once they have takenhold

With a firm hand, in spite of his anguish, he began to tear off in bleeding fragments the covering of mortalprejudices, passions, and ideas foreign to his real nature, which clung to him

First came the thick fleece of the thousand-headed beast, the collective soul of the herd He had hidden under

it from fear and weariness It is hot and stifling, a dirty feather-bed; but once wrapped in it, one cannot move

to throw it off, or even wish to do so; there is no need to will, or to think; one is sheltered from cold, fromresponsibilities Laziness, cowardice! Come, away with it! Let the chilly wind blow through the rents Youshrink at first, but already this breath has shaken the torpor; the enfeebled energy begins to stagger to its feet.What will it find outside? No matter what, we must see

Sick with disgust, he saw first what he was loath to believe; how this greasy fleece had stuck to his flesh Hecould sniff the musty odour of the primitive beast, the savage instincts of war, of murder, the lust for bloodlike living meat torn by his jaws The elemental force which asks death for life Far down in the depths ofhuman nature is this slaughter-house in the ditch, never filled up but covered with the veil of a false

civilisation, over which hangs a faint whiff from the butcher's shop This filthy odour finally sobered

Clerambault; with horror he tore off the skin of the beast whose prey he had been

Ah, how thick it was, warm, silky, and beautiful, and at the same time stinking and bloody, made of thelowest instincts, and the highest illusions To love, give ourselves to all, be a sacrifice for all, be but one bodyand one soul, our Country the sole life! What then is this Country, this living thing to which a man sacrificeshis life, the life of all but his conscience and the consciences of others? What is this blind love, of which theother side of the shield is an equally blinded hate?

"It was a great error to take the name of reason from that of love," says Pascal, "and we have no good cause

to think them opposed, for love and reason are in truth the same Love is a precipitation of thought to one sidewithout considering everything; but it is always reason."

Well, let us consider everything Is not this love in a great measure the fear of examining all things, as a childhides his head under the sheet, so as not to see the shadow on the wall?

Country? A Hindoo temple: men, monsters, and gods What is she? The earth we tread on? The whole earth isthe mother of us all The family? It is here and there, with the enemy as with ourselves, and it asks nothing butpeace The poor, the workers, the people, they are on both sides, equally miserable, equally exploited

Thinkers have a common field, and as for their rivalries and their vanities, they are as ridiculous in the East as

in the West; the world does not go to war over the quarrels of a Vadius or a Trissotin The State? But the Stateand the Country are not the same thing The confusion is made by those who find profit in it; the State is ourstrength, used and abused by men like ourselves, no better than ourselves, often worse We are not duped by

them, and in times of peace we judge them fairly enough, but let a war come on, they are given carte blanche,

they can appeal to the lowest instincts, stifle all control, suppress liberty and truth, destroy all humanity; theyare masters, we must stand shoulder to shoulder to defend the honour and the mistakes of these Masacarillesarrayed in borrowed plumes We are all answerable, do you say? Terrible net-work of words! Responsible nodoubt we are for the best and the worst of our people, it is a fact as we well know, but that it is a duty thatbinds us to their injustices and their insanities I deny it!

There can be no question as to community of interest No one, thought Clerambault, has had more joy in it, orsaid more in praise of its greatness It is good and healthy, it makes for rest and strength, to plunge the bare,stiff, cold ego into the collective mind, as into a bath of confidence and fraternal gifts It unbends, gives itself,breathes more deeply; man needs his fellow-man, and owes himself to him, but in order to give out, he mustpossess, he must be something But how can he be, if his self is merged in others? He has many duties, but thehighest of all is to be and remain himself; even when he sacrifices and gives all that he is To bathe in the soul

of others would be dangerous as a permanent state; one dip, for health's sake, but do not stay too long, or youwill lose all moral vigour In our day you are plunged from childhood, whether you like it or not, into thedemocratic tub Society thinks for you, imposes its morality upon you; its State acts for you, its fashions andits opinions steal from you the very air you breathe; you have no lungs, no heart, no light of your own Youserve what you despise, you lie in every gesture, word, and thought, you surrender, become nothing Whatdoes it profit us all, if we all surrender? For the sake of whom, or what? To satisfy blind instincts, or rogues?Does God rule, or do some charlatans speak for the oracle? Let us lift the veil, and look the hidden thingbehind it in the face Our Country! A great noble word! The father, brother embracing brother That is notwhat your false country offers me, but an enclosure, a pit full of beasts, trenches, barriers, prison bars Mybrothers, where are they? Where are those who travail all over the world? Cain, what hast thou done withthem? I stretch out my arms; a wave of blood separates us; in my own country I am only an anonymousinstrument of assassination My Country! but it is you who destroy her! My Country was the great

community of mankind; you have ravaged it, for thought and liberty know not where to lay their heads inEurope today I must rebuild my house, the home of us all, for you have none, yours is a dungeon How can

it be done, where shall I look, or find shelter? They have taken everything from me! There is not a free spot

on earth or in the mind; all the sanctuaries of the soul, of art, of science, religion, they are all violated, allenslaved! I am alone, lost, nothing remains to me but death!

* * * * *

When he had torn everything away, there remained nothing but his naked soul And for the rest of the night, itcould only stand chilled and shivering But a spark lived in this spirit that shivered, in this tiny being lost inthe universe like those shapes which the primitive painters represented coming out of the mouth of the dying.With the dawn the feeble flame, stifled under so many falsehoods, began to revive, and was relighted by thefirst breath of free air; nothing could again extinguish it

* * * * *

Upon this agony or parturition of the soul there followed a long sad day, the repose of a broken spirit, in agreat silence with the aching relief of duty performed Clerambault sat with his head against the back of hisarmchair, and thought; his body was feverish, his heart heavy with recollections The tears fell unnoticed fromhis eyes, while out of doors nature awoke sadly to the last days of winter, like him stripped and bare But stillthere trembled a warmth beneath the icy air, which was to kindle a new fire everywhere

PART TWO

It was a week before Clerambault could go out again The terrible crisis through which he had passed had lefthim weak but resolved, and though the exaltation of his despair had quieted down, he was stoically

determined to follow the truth even to the end The remembrance of the errors in which his mind had

delighted, and the half-truths on which it had fed made him humble; he doubted his own strength, and wished

to advance step by step He was ready to welcome the advice of those wiser than himself He rememberedhow Perrotin listened to his former confidences with a sarcastic reserve that irritated him at the time, butwhich now attracted him His first visit of convalescence was to this wise old friend

Perrotin was rather short-sighted and selfish, and did not take the trouble to look carefully at things that werenot necessary to him, being a closer observer of books than of faces, but he was none the less struck by thealteration in Clerambault's expression

"My dear friend," said he, "have you been ill?"

"Yes, ill enough," answered Clerambault, "but I have pulled myself together again, and am better now."

"It is the cruelest blow of all," said Perrotin, "to lose at our age, such a friend as your poor boy was to you "

"The most cruel is not his loss," said the father, "it is that I contributed to his death."

"What do you mean, my good friend?" said Perrotin in surprise "How can you imagine such things to add toyour trouble?"

"It was I who shut his eyes," said Clerambault bitterly, "and he has opened mine."

Perrotin pushed aside the work, which according to his habit he had continued to ruminate upon during theconversation, and looked narrowly at his friend, who bent his head, and began his story in an indistinct voice,sad and charged with feeling Like a Christian of the early times making public confession, he accused

himself of falsehood towards his faith, his heart, and his reason

When the Apostle saw his Lord in chains, he was afraid and denied Him; but he was not brought so low as tooffer his services as executioner He, Clerambault, had not only deserted the cause of human brotherhood, hehad debased it; he had continued to talk of fraternity, while he was stirring up hatred Like those lying priestswho distort the Scriptures to serve their wicked purposes, he had knowingly altered the most generous ideas todisguise murderous passions

He extolled war, while calling himself a pacifist; professed to be humanitarian, previously putting the enemyoutside humanity Oh, how much franker it would have been to yield to force than to lend himself to itsdishonouring compromises! It was thanks to such sophistries as his that the idealism of young men wasthrown into the arena Those old poisoners, the artists and thinkers, had sweetened the death-brew with theirhoneyed rhetoric, which would have been found out and rejected by every conscience with disgust, if it hadnot been for their falsehoods

"The blood of my son is on my head," said Clerambault sadly "The death of the youth of Europe, in allcountries, lies at the door of European thought It has been everywhere a servant to the hangman."

Perrotin leaned over and took Clerambault's hand "My poor friend," said he, "you make too much of this Nodoubt you are right to acknowledge the errors of judgment into which you have been drawn by public opinion,and I may confess to you now that I was sorry to see it; but you are wrong to ascribe to yourself and otherthinkers so much responsibility for the events of today One man speaks, another acts; but the speakers do notmove the others to action; they are all drifting with the tide This unfortunate European thought is a bit ofdrift-wood like the rest, it does not make the current, it is carried along by it."

"It persuades people to yield to it," said Clerambault, "instead of helping the swimmers, and bidding themstruggle against it; it says: Let yourself go No, my friend, do not try to diminish its responsibility, it is thegreatest of all Our thought had the best place from which to see; its business was to keep watch, and if it sawnothing, it was through lack of good-will, for it cannot lay the blame on its eyes, which are clear enough Youknow it and so do I, now that I have come to my senses The same intelligence which darkened my eyes, hasnow torn away the bandage; how can it be, at the same time, a power for truth and for falsehood?"

Perrotin shook his head

"Yes, intelligence is so great and so high that she cannot put herself at the service of any other forces withoutderogation; for if she is no longer mistress and free, she is degraded It is a case of Roman master debasing the

Greek, his superior, and making him his purveyor Graeculus, sophist, Laeno To the vulgar the intelligence

is a sort of maid-of-all-work, and in this position she displays the sly, dishonest cleverness of her kind

Sometimes she is employed by hatred, pride, or self-interest, and then she flatters these little devils, dressingthem up as Idealism, Love, Faith, Liberty, and social generosity; for when a man does not love his neighbour,

he says he loves God, his Country, or even Humanity Sometimes the poor master is himself a slave to theState Under threat of punishment, the social machine forces him to acts which are repugnant, but the

complaisant intelligence persuades him that these are fine and glorious, and performed by him of his own freewill In either case the intelligence knows what she is about, and is always at our disposition if we really wanther to tell us the truth; but we take good care to avoid it, and never to be left alone with her We manage so as

to meet her only in public when we can put leading questions as we please When all is said, the earth goesround none the less, _e pur se muove_; the laws of the world are obeyed, and the free mind beholds them Allthe rest is vanity; the passions, faith, sincere or insincere, are only the painted face of that necessity whichrules the world, without caring for our idols: family, race, country, religion, society, progress Progressindeed! The great illusion! Humanity is like water that must find its level, and when the cistern brims over avalve opens and it is empty again A catastrophic rhythm, the heights of civilisation, and then downfall Werise, and are cast down "

Thus Perrotin calmly unveiled his Thought She was not much accustomed to going naked; but she forgot thatshe had a witness, and undressed as if she were alone She was extremely bold, as is often the thought of aman of letters not obliged to suit the action to the word, but who much prefers, on the contrary, not to do so.The alarmed Clerambault listened with his mouth open; certain words revolted him, others pierced him to theheart; his head swam, but he overcame his weakness, for he was determined to lose nothing of these

profundities He pressed Perrotin with questions: and he, on his part, flattered and smiling, complaisantlyunrolled his pyrrhonian visions, as peaceable as they were destructive

The vapours of the pit were rising all about them; and Clerambault was admiring the ease of this free spiritperched on the edge of the abyss and enjoying it, when the door opened, and the servant came in with a cardwhich he gave to Perrotin

At once the terrible phantoms of the brain vanished; a trap-door shut out the emptiness, and an official

drawing-room rug covered it Perrotin roused himself and said eagerly: "Certainly, show him in at once."

Turning to Clerambault he added:

"Pardon me, my dear friend, it is the Honourable Under-Secretary of State for Public Instruction."

He was already on his feet and went to meet his visitor, a stage-lover looking fellow, with the blue

clean-shaven chin of a priest or a Yankee, who held his head very high, and wore in the grey cut-a-way whichclothed his well-rounded figure, the rosette which is displayed alike by our heroes and our lackeys The oldgentleman presented Clerambault to him with cheerful alacrity: "Mr Agénor Clerambault Mr HyacinthMonchéri," and asked the Honourable Under-Secretary of State to what he owed the honour of his visit TheHonourable Under-Secretary, not in the least surprised by the obsequious welcome of the old scholar, settledhimself in his armchair with the lofty air of familiarity suitable to the superior position he held over the tworepresentatives of French letters He represented the State

Speaking haughtily through his nose, and braying like a dromedary, he extended to Perrotin an invitation fromthe Minister to preside over a solemn contest of embattled intellectuals from ten nations, in the great

amphitheatre of the Sorbonne "an imprecatory meeting," he called it Perrotin promptly accepted, and

professed himself overcome by the honour His servile tone before this licensed government ignoramus made

a striking contrast with his bold statements a few moments before, and Clerambault, somewhat taken aback,

thought of the Graeculus.

Mr "Chéri" walked out with his head in the air, like an ass in a sacred procession, accompanied by Perrotin tothe very threshold, and when the friends were once more alone, Clerambault would have liked to resume theconversation, but he could not conceal that he was a little chilled by what had passed He asked Perrotin if hemeant to state in public the opinions he had just professed, and Perrotin refused, naturally, laughing at hisfriend's simplicity What is more, he cautioned him affectionately against proclaiming such ideas from thehouse-tops Clerambault was vexed and disputed the point, but in order to make the situation clear to him, andwith the utmost frankness, Perrotin described his surroundings, the great minds of the higher University,which he represented officially: historians, philosophers, professors of rhetoric He spoke of them politely butwith a deep half-concealed contempt, and a touch of personal bitterness; for in spite of his prudence, the lessintelligent of his colleagues looked on him with suspicion; he was too clever He said he was like an old blindman's dog in a pack of barking curs; forced to do as they did and bark at the passers-by

Clerambault did not quarrel with him, but went away with pity in his heart

He stayed in the house for several days, for this first contact with the outside world had depressed him, andthe friend on whom he had relied for guidance had failed him miserably He was much troubled, for

Clerambault was weak and unused to stand alone Poet as he was, and absolutely sincere, he had never felt itnecessary to think independently of others; he had let himself be carried along by their thought, making it hisown, becoming its inspired voice and mouth-piece Now all was suddenly changed Notwithstanding thatnight of crisis, his doubts returned upon him; for after fifty a man's nature cannot be transformed at a touch,

no matter how much the mind may have retained the elasticity of youth The light of a revelation does notalways shine, like the sun in a clear summer sky, but is more like an arc-light, which often winks and goes outbefore the current becomes strong When these irregular pulsations fade out, the shadows appear deeper, andthe spirit totters and then It was hard for Clerambault to get along without other people

He decided to visit all his friends, of whom he had many, in the literary world, in the University, and among

the intelligent bourgeoisie He was sure to find some among them who, better than he, could divine the

problems which beset him, and help him in their solution

Timidly, without as yet betraying his own mind, he tried to read theirs, to listen and observe; but he had notrealised that the veil had fallen from his eyes; and the vision that he saw of a world, once well-known to him,seemed strange and cold

The whole world of letters was mobilised; so that personalities were no longer to be distinguished Theuniversities formed a ministry of domesticated intelligence; its functions were to draw up the acts of the State,its master and patron; the different departments were known by their professional twists.

The professors of literature were above all skilful in developing moral arguments oratorically under the threeterms of the syllogism Their mania was an excessive simplification of argument; they put high-soundingwords in the place of reason, and made too much of a few ideas, always the same, lifeless for lack of colour orshading They had unearthed these weapons of a so-called classic antiquity, the key to which had been

jealously guarded throughout the ages by academic Mamelukes, and these eloquent antiquated ideas werefalsely called Humanities, though in many respects they offended the common-sense and the heart of

humanity as it is today Still they bore the hall-mark of Rome, prototype of all our modern states, and theirauthorised exponents were the State rhetoricians

The philosophers excelled in abstract constructions; they had the art of explaining the concrete by the abstract,the real by its shadow They systematised some hasty partial observations, melted them in their alembics, andfrom them deduced laws to regulate the entire world They strove to subject life, multiple and many-sided, to

the unity of the mind, that is, to their mind The time-serving trickeries of a sophistical profession facilitated

this imperialism of the reason; they knew how to handle ideas, twisting, stretching, and tying them togetherlike strips of candy; it would have been child's play for them to make a camel pass through the eye of aneedle They could also prove that black was white, and could find in the works of Emanuel Kant the freedom

of the world, or Prussian militarism, just as they saw fit

The historians were the born scribes, attorneys, and lawyers of the Government, charged with the care of itscharters, its title-deeds, and cases, and armed to the teeth for its future quarrels What is history after all?The story of success, the demonstration of what has been done, just or unjust The defeated have no history

Be silent, you Persians of Salamis, slaves of Spartacus, Gauls, Arabs of Poitiers, Albigenses, Irish, Indians ofboth Americas, and colonial peoples generally! When a worthy man revolting against the injustices of hisday, puts his hope in posterity by way of consolation, he forgets that this posterity has but little chance tolearn of former events All that can be known is what the advocates of official history think favourable to thecause of their client, the State A lawyer for the adverse party may possibly intervene someone of anothernation, or of an oppressed social or religious group; but there is small chance for him; the secret is kept toowell!

Orators, sophists, and pleaders, the three corporations of the Faculty of Letters, Letters of State, signed andpatented!

The studies of the "scientifics" ought to have protected them better from the suggestions and contagions of theoutside world that is, if they confined themselves to their trade Unfortunately they have been tempted from

it, for the applied sciences have taken so large a place in practical affairs that experts find themselves throwninto the foremost ranks of action, and exposed to all the infections of the public mind Their self-respect isdirectly interested in the victory of the community, which can as easily assimilate the heroism of the soldier asthe follies and falsehoods of the publicist Few scientific men have had the strength to keep themselves free;for the most part they have only contributed the rigour, the stiffness of the geometrical mind, added to

professional rivalries, always more acute between learned bodies of different nationalities

The regular writers, poets, and novelists, who have no official ties, they, at least should have the advantages oftheir independence; but unfortunately few of them are able to judge for themselves of events which are

beyond the limits of their habitual preoccupations, commercial or aesthetic The greater number, and not theleast known, are as ignorant as fishes It would be best for them to stick to their shop, according to theirnatural instinct; but their vanity has been foolishly tickled, and they have been urged to mix themselves upwith public affairs, and give their opinion on the universe They can naturally have but scattering views onsuch subjects, and in default of personal judgment, they drift with the current, reacting with extreme quickness

to any shock, for they are ultra-sensitive, with a morbid vanity which exaggerates the thoughts of others when

it cannot express their own This is the only originality at their disposal, and God knows they make the most

of it!

What remains? the Clergy? It is they who handle the heaviest explosives; the ideas of Justice, Truth, Right,and God; and they make this artillery fight for their passions Their absurd pride, of which they are quiteunconscious, causes them to lay claim to the property of God, and to the exclusive right to dispose of itwholesale and retail

It is not so much that they lack sincerity, virtue, or kindness, but they do lack humility; they have none,however much they may profess it Their practice consists in adoring their navel as they see it reflected in theTalmud, or the Old and New Testaments They are monsters of pride, not so very far removed from the fool oflegend who thought himself God the Father Is it so much less dangerous to believe oneself His manager, orHis secretary?

Clerambault was struck by the morbid character of the intellectual species In the bourgeois caste the power of

organisation and expression of ideas has reached almost monstrous proportions The equilibrium of life isdestroyed by a bureaucracy of the mind which thinks itself much superior to the simple worker Certainly noone can deny that it has its uses; it collects and classifies thoughts in its pigeon-holes and puts them to variouspurposes, but the idea rarely occurs to it to examine its material and renew the content of thought

It remains the vain guardian of a demonetised treasure If only this mistake were a harmless one; but ideas thatare not constantly confronted with reality, which are not frequently dipped into the stream of experience, growdry, and take on a toxic character They throw a heavy shadow over the new life, bring on the night andproduce fever What a stupid thraldom to abstract words! Of what use is it to dethrone kings and by what right

do we jeer at those who die for their masters, if it is only to put tyrannic entities in their places, which weadorn with their tinsel? It is much better, to have a flesh and blood monarch, whom you can control suppress

if necessary than these abstractions, these invisible despots, that no one knows now, nor ever has known Wedeal only with the head Eunuchs, the priests of the hidden Crocodile, as Taine calls him, the wire-pullingministers who speak in the idol's name. Ah! let us tear away the veil and know the creature hidden inside of

us There is less danger when man shows frankly as a brute than when he drapes himself in a false and sicklyidealism He does not eliminate his animal instincts, he only deifies and tries to explain them, but as thiscannot be done without excessive simplification according to the law of the mind which in order to graspmust let go an equal amount he disguises and intensifies them in one direction Everything that departs fromthe straight line or that interferes with the strict logic of his mental edifice, he denies; worse he pulls it up bythe roots, and commands that it be destroyed in the name of sacred principles It therefore follows that he cutsdown much of the infinite growth of nature, and allows to stand only the trees of the mind that he

chooses generally those that flourish in deserts and ruins and which there grow abnormally Of such is thecrushing predominance of one single tyrannous form of the Family, of Country, and of the narrow moralitywhich serves them The poor creature is proud of it all; and it is he who is the victim

Humanity does not dare to massacre itself from interested motives It is not proud of its interests, but it doespride itself on its ideas which are a thousand times more deadly Man sees his own superiority in his ideas,and will fight for them; but herein I perceive his folly, for this warlike idealism is a disease peculiar to him,and its effects are similar to those of alcoholism; they add enormously to wickedness and criminality Thissort of intoxication deteriorates the brain, filling it with hallucinations, to which the living are sacrificed.What an extraordinary spectacle, seen from the interior of our skulls! A throng of phantoms rising from ouroverexcited brains: Justice, Liberty, Right, Country Our poor brains are all equally honest, but each accusesthe other of insincerity In this fantastic shadowy struggle, we can distinguish nothing but the cries and theconvulsions of the human animal, possessed by devils Below are clouds charged with lightnings, wheregreat fierce birds are fighting; the realists, the men of affairs, swarm and gnaw like fleas in a skin; with open

mouths, and grasping hands, secretly exciting the folly by which they profit, but in which they do not share

O Thought! monstrous and splendid flower springing from the humus of our time-honoured instincts! Intruth, thou art an element penetrating and impregnating man, but thou dost not spring from him, thy source isbeyond him, and thy strength greater than his Our senses are fairly well-adapted to our needs but our thought

is not, it overflows and maddens us Very, very few among us men can guide themselves on this torrent; thefar greater number are swept along, at random, trusting to chance The tremendous power of thought is notunder man's control; he tries to make it serve him, and his greatest danger is that he believes that it does so;but he is like a child handling explosives; there is no proportion between these colossal engines and thepurpose for which his feeble hands employ them Sometimes they all blow up together

How guard against this danger? Shall we stifle thought, uproot living ideas? That would mean the castration

of man's brain, the loss of his chief stimulus in life; but nevertheless the _eau-de-vie_ of his mind contains apoison which is the more to be dreaded because it is spread broadcast among the masses, in the form ofadulterated drugs Rouse thee, Man, and sober thyself! Look about; shake off ideas Free thyself from thineown thoughts and learn to govern thy gigantic phantoms which devour themselves in their rage And begin

by taking the capitals from the names of those great goddesses, Country, Liberty, Right Come down fromOlympus into the manger, and come without ornaments, without arms, rich only in your beauty, and ourlove I do not know the gods of Justice and Liberty; I only know my brother-man, and his acts, sometimesjust, sometimes unjust; and I also know of peoples, all aspiring to real liberty but all deprived of it, and whoall, more or less, submit to oppression

The sight of this world in a fever-fit would have filled a sage with the desire to withdraw until the attack wasover; but Clerambault was not a sage He knew this, and he also knew that it was vain to speak; but none theless he felt that he must, that he should end by speaking He wished to delay the dangerous moment, and histimidity, which shrank from single combat with the world, sought about him for a companion in thought Thefight would not be so hard if there were two or three together

The first whose feeling he cautiously sounded were some unfortunate people who, like him, had lost a son.The father, a well-known painter, had a studio in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs His name was OmerCalville and the Clerambaults were neighbourly with him and his wife, a nice old couple of the middle class,devoted to each other They had that gentleness, common to many artists of their day, who had known

Carrière, and caught remote reflections of Tolstọsm, which, like their simplicity, appeared a little artificial,for though it harmonised with their real goodness of heart, the fashion of the time had added a touch of

exaggeration

Those artists who sincerely profess their religious respect for all that lives, are less capable than anyone else

of understanding the passions of war The Calvilles had held themselves outside the struggle; they did notprotest, they accepted it, without acquiescing, as one accepts sickness, death, or the wickedness of men, with adignified sadness

When Clerambault read them his burning poems they listened politely and made little response but strangelyenough, at the very time that Clerambault, cured of his warlike illusions, turned to them, he found that theyhad changed places with him The death of their son had produced on them the opposite effect And now theywere awkwardly taking part in the conflict, as if to replace their lost boy They snuffed up eagerly all thestench in the papers, and Clerambault found them actually rejoicing, in their misery, over the assertion that theUnited States was prepared to fight for twenty years

"What would become of France, of Europe, in twenty years?" he tried to say, but they hastily put this thoughtaway from them with much irritation, almost as if it were improper to mention, or even to think of such athing

The question was to conquer; at what price? That could be settled afterwards. Conquer? Suppose there were

no more conquerors left in France? Never mind, so long as the others are beaten No, it should not be that theblood of their son had been shed in vain

"And to avenge his death, must other innocent lives also be sacrificed?" thought Clerambault, and in thehearts of these good people he read the answer: "Why not?" The same idea was in the minds of all those who,like the Calvilles, had lost through the war what they held dearest a son, a husband, or a brother

"Let the others suffer as we have, we have nothing left to lose." Was there nothing left? In truth there was onething only, on which the fierce egotism of these mourners kept jealous guard; their faith in the necessity ofthese sacrifices Let no one try to shake that, or doubt that the cause was sacred for which these dear ones fell.The leaders of the war knew this, and well did they understand how to make the most of such a lure No, bythese sad fire-sides there was no place for Clerambault's doubts and feelings of pity

"They had no pity on us," thought the unhappy ones, "why should we pity them?"

Some had suffered less, but what characterised nearly all of these bourgeois was the reverence they had for the great slogans of the past: "Committee of Public Safety," "The Country in Danger," "Plutarch," "De Viris,"

"Horace," it seemed impossible for them to look at the present with eyes of today; perhaps they had no eyes

to see with Outside of the narrow circle of their own affairs, how many of our anemic bourgeoisie have the

power to think for, themselves, after they have reached the age of thirty? It would never cross their minds;their thoughts are furnished to them like their provisions, only more cheaply For one or two cents a day theyget them from their papers The more intelligent, who look for thought in books, do not give themselves thetrouble to seek it also in life, and think that one is the reflection of the other Like the prematurely aged, theirmembers become stiff, and their minds petrified

In the great flock of those ruminating souls who fed on the past, the group of bigots pinning its faith to the

French Revolution was easily distinguished Among the backward bourgeoisie they were reckoned incendiary

in former days; about the time of the 16th of May, or a little later Like quinquagenarians grown stolid andsettled, they looked back with pride to their wild conduct, and lived on the memory of the emotions of

by-gone days If their mirror showed them no change, the world had altered around them without their

suspecting it, while they continued to copy their antiquated models It is a curious imitative instinct, a slavery

of the brain, to remain hypnotised by some point in the past, instead of trying to follow Proteus in his

course the life of change One picks up the old skin which the young snake has thrown off long ago, and tries

to sew it together again These pedantic admirers of old revolutions believe that those of the future will bemade on the same lines They will not see that the new liberty must have a gait of its own, and will overleapbarriers before which its grandmother of ninety-three stopped, out of breath They are also much more vexed

by the disrespect of the young people who have gone by them, than they are by the spiteful yelping of the oldwhom they have left behind; this is only natural, for these young folks make them feel their age, and then it istheir turn to yelp

So it ever shall be; as they grow older there are very few men willing to let life take its own course, and whoare generous enough to look at the future through the eyes of their juniors, as their own sight grows dim Thegreater number of those who loved liberty in their youth, want to make a case of it now for the new broods,because they can no longer fly themselves

The followers of the national revolutionary cult in the style of Danton, or of Robespierre were the bitterestadversaries of the internationalism of today; though they did not always agree perfectly amongst themselves,and the friends of Danton and Robespierre, with the shadow of the guillotine between them, hurled the epithet

of heretic at each other with the deadliest threats They did, however, all agree on one point, and devoted todestruction those who did not believe that Liberty is shot out of the mouth of cannon, those who dared to feelthe same aversion towards violence, whether it was exerted by Caesar, Demos, or his satellites, or even if it

was in the name of right and liberty itself The face underneath is the same, no matter what mask may beworn.

Clerambault knew several of these fanatics, but there was no point in discussing with them whether the right,

or its counterfeit, were only on one side in war; it would have been equally sensible to argue about the HolyInquisition with a Manichee Lay religions have their great seminaries and secret societies where they deposittheir doctrinal treasures with great pride He who departs from these is excommunicated until he in turnbelongs to the past, when he becomes a god, and can excommunicate in future himself

* * * * *

If Clerambault was not tempted to convert these hardened intellectuals with their stiff helmet of truth, he knewothers who had not the same proud certainty; far from it Those who sinned rather through softness and puredilettantism Arsène Asselin was one of these, an amiable Parisian, unmarried, a man of the world, clever andsceptical; and as much shocked by a defect in sentiment as in expression How could he like extremes ofthought, which are the cultures in which the germs of war develop? His critical and sarcastic spirit inclinedhim towards doubt; so there was no reason why he should not have understood Clerambault's point of view,and he came within an ace of doing so His choice depended on some fortuitous circumstances, but from themoment that he turned his face in the other direction, it was impossible for him to go back; and the more hestuck in the mud, the more obstinate he grew French self-respect cannot bear to admit its mistakes; it wouldrather die in defence of them But French or not, how many are there in the world who would have thestrength of mind to say: "I have made a mistake, we must begin all over again." Better deny the evidence

"To the bitter end" And then break down

Alexandre Mignon was a before-the-war pacifist and an old friend of Clerambault's He was a bourgeois of

about his own age, intellectual, a member of the University, and justly respected for the dignity of his life Heshould not be confounded with those parlour pacifists covered with official decorations and grand cordons ofinternational orders, for whom peace is a gilt-edged investment in quiet times For thirty years he had

sincerely denounced the dangerous intrigues of the dishonest politicians and speculators of his country; hewas a member of the League for the Rights of Man, and loved to make speeches for either cause, as it mighthappen It was enough if his client purported to be oppressed; it did not matter if the victim had been a

would-be oppressor himself His blundering generosity sometimes made him ridiculous, but he was alwaysliked He did not object to the ridicule, nor did he dread a little unpopularity, as long as he was surrounded byhis own group, whose approbation was necessary to him As a member of a group which was independentwhen they all held together, he thought that he was an independent person, but this was not the case Union isstrength they say, but it accustoms us to lean upon it, as Alexandre Mignon found to his cost

The death of Jaurès had broken up the group; and lacking one voice the first to speak all the others failed.They waited for the password that no one dared to give When the torrent broke over them these generous butweak men were uncertain, and were carried away by the first rush They did not understand nor approve of it,but they could make no resistance From the beginning desertions began in their ranks, produced largely bythe terrible speech-makers who then governed the country demagogue lawyers, practised in all the sophistries

of republican idealogy: "War for Peace, Lasting Peace at the End " (_Requiescat_) In these artifices thepoor pacifists saw a way to get out of their dilemma; it was not a very brilliant way and they were not proud

of it, but it was their only chance They hoped to reconcile their pacific principles with the fact of violence bymeans of "big talk" which did not sound to them as outrageous as it really was To refuse would have been togive themselves up to the war-like pack, which would have devoured them

Alexandre Mignon would have had courage to face the bloody jaws if he had had his little community at hisback, but alone it was beyond his strength He let things go at first, without committing himself, but he

suffered, passing through agonies something like those of Clerambault, but with a different result He was lessimpulsive and more intellectual In order to efface his last scruples he hid them under close reasoning, and

with the aid of his colleagues he laboriously proved by a + b that war was the duty of consistent pacifism HisLeague had every advantage in dwelling on the criminal acts of the enemy; but did not dwell on those in itsown camp Alexandre Mignon had occasional glimpses of the universal injustice; an intolerable vision, onwhich he closed his shutters

In proportion as he was swaddled in his war arguments, it became more difficult for him to disentanglehimself, and he persisted more and more Suppose a child carelessly pulls off the wing of an insect; it is only apiece of nervous awkwardness, but the insect is done for, and the child ashamed and irritated, tears the poorcreature to pieces to relieve his own feelings

The pleasure with which he listened to Clerambault's mea culpa may be imagined; but the effect was

surprising Mignon, already ill at ease, turned on Clerambault, whose self-accusations seemed to point at him,and treated him like an enemy In the sequel no one was more violent than Mignon against this living remorse

* * * * *

There were some politicians who would have understood Clerambault better, for they knew as much as he didand perhaps more; but it did not keep them awake at night They had been used to mental trickery ever sincethey cut their first teeth, and were expert at _combinazione_; they had the illusion of serving their party,cheaply gained by a few compromises here and there! To think and walk straightforwardly was the onething impossible to these flabby shufflers, who backed, or advanced in spirals, who dragged their banner inthe mud, by way of assuring its triumph, and who, to reach the Capitol, would have crawled up the steps ontheir stomachs

* * * * *

Here and there some clear-sighted spirits were hidden, but they were easier to guess at than to see; they weremelancholy glow-worms who had put out their lanterns in their fright, so that not a gleam was visible Theycertainly had no faith in the war, but neither did they believe in anything against it; fatalists, pessimists all

It was clear to Clerambault that when personal energy is lacking, the highest qualities of head and heart onlyincrease the public servitude The stoicism which submits to the laws of the universe prevents us from

resisting those which are cruel, instead of saying to destiny: "No, thus far, and no farther!" If it pushes onyou will see the stoic stand politely aside, as he murmurs: "Please come in!" Cultivated heroism, the taste forthe superhuman, even the inhuman, chokes the soul with its sacrifices, and the more absurd they are, the moresublime they appear Christians of today, more generous than their Master, render all to Caesar; a cause seemssacred to them from the moment that they are asked to immolate themselves to it To the ignominy of warthey piously kindle the flame of their faith, and throw their bodies on the altar The people bend their backs,and accept with a passive, ironic resignation "No need to borrow trouble." Ages and ages of misery haverolled over this stone, but in the end stones do wear down and become mud

Clerambault tried to talk with one and another of these people but found himself everywhere opposed by thesame hidden, half-unconscious resistance They were armed with the will not to hear, or rather with a

remarkable not-will to hear Their minds were as impervious to contrary arguments as a duck's feathers towater Men in general are endowed, for their comfort, with a precious faculty; they can make themselves blindand deaf when it does not suit them to see and hear, and when by chance they pick up some inconvenientobject, they drop it quickly, and forget it as soon as possible How many citizens in any country knew thetruth about the divided responsibility for the war, or about the ill-omened part played by their politicians, who,themselves deceived, pretended with great success to be ignorant!

If everyone is trying to escape from himself, it is clear, that a man will run faster from someone who, likeClerambault, would help him to recover himself In order to avoid their own conscience, intelligent, serious,

honourable men do not blush to employ the little tricks of a woman or a child trying to get its own way; anddreading a discussion which might unsettle them, they would seize on the first awkward expression used byClerambault They would separate it from the context, dress it up if necessary, and with raised voices and eyesstarting from their heads, feign an indignation which they ended by feeling sincerely They would repeat

"mordicus," even after the proof, and if obliged to admit it, would rush off, banging the door after them:

"Can't stand any more of that!" But two, or perhaps ten days after, they would come back and renew theargument, as if nothing had happened

Some treacherous ones provoked Clerambault to say more than he intended, and having gained their point,exploded with rage But even the most good-natured told him that he lacked good sense "good," of course,meaning "my way of thinking."

There were the clever talkers also who, having nothing to fear from a contest of words, began an argument inthe flattering hope that they could bring the wandering sheep back to the fold It was not his main idea thatthey disputed, so much as its desirability; they would appeal to Clerambault's better side:

"Certainly, of course, I think as you do, or almost as you do; I understand what you mean; but you ought to

be cautious, my dear friend, not to trouble the consciences of those who have to fight You cannot alwaysspeak the truth, at least not all at once These fine things may come about in fifty years, perhaps We mustwait and not go too fast for nature "

"Wait, until the appetites of the exploiter, and the folly of the exploited are equally exhausted? When thethinking of clear-sighted, better sort gives way to the blindness of coarser minds, it goes directly contrary tothat nature which it professes to follow, and against the historical destiny which they themselves make it apoint of honour to obey For do we respect the plans of Nature when we stifle one part of its thought, and thehigher, at that? The theory which would lop off the strongest forces from life, and bend it before the passions

of the multitude, would result in suppressing the advance-guard, and leaving the army without leaders When the boat leans over, must I not throw my weight on the other side to keep an even keel? Or must we allsit down to leeward? Advanced ideas are Nature's weights, intended to counter-balance the heavy stubbornpast; without them the boat will upset The welcome they will receive is a side issue Their advocates canexpect to be stoned, but whoever has these things in his mind and does not speak them, is a dishonoured man

He is like a soldier in battle, to whom a dangerous message is entrusted; is he free to shirk it? Why does noteveryone understand these things?"

When they saw that persuasion had no effect on Clerambault, they unmasked their batteries and violentlytaxed him with absurd, criminal pride They asked him if he thought himself cleverer than anyone else, that heset himself up against the entire nation? On what did he found this overweening self-confidence? Duty

consists in being humble, and keeping to one's proper place in the community; when it commands, our duty is

to bow to it, and, whether we agree or not, we must carry out its orders Woe to the rebel against the soul ofhis country! To be in the right and in opposition to her is to be wrong, and in the hour of action wrong is acrime The Republic demands obedience from her sons

"The Republic or death," said Clerambault ironically "And this is a free country? Free, yes, because therehave always been, and always will be some souls like mine, which refuse to bend to a yoke which theirconscience disavows We are become a nation of tyrants There was no great advantage in taking the Bastille

In the old days one ran the risk of perpetual imprisonment if one made so bold as to differ from the

Prince the fagot, if you did not agree with the Church; but now you must think with forty millions of menand follow them in their frantic contradictions One day you must scream: "Down with England!" Tomorrow

it will be: "Down with Germany!" and the next day it may be the turn of Italy; and da capo in a week or two.

Today we acclaim a man or an idea, tomorrow we shall insult him; and anyone who refuses risks

dishonour or a pistol bullet This is the most ignoble and shameful servitude of all! By what right do ahundred, a thousand, one or forty millions of men, demand that I shall renounce my soul? Each of them has

one, like mine Forty millions of souls together often make only one, which has denied itself forty millions oftimes I think what I think Go you and do likewise The living truth can be re-born only from the

equilibrium of opposing thoughts To make the citizen respect the city, it must be reciprocal; each has hissoul It is his right and his first duty is to be true to it I have no illusions, and in this world of prey I do notattribute an exaggerated importance to my own conscience, but however small we may be or little we may do,

we must exist We are all liable to err, but deceived or not, a man should be sincere; an honest mistake is not alie, but a stage on the road to truth The real lie is to fear the truth and try to stifle it Even if you were athousand times right, if you resort to force to crush a sincere mistake, you commit the most odious crimeagainst reason itself If reason is persecutor, and error persecuted, I am for the victim, for error has rights aswell as truth Truth the real truth, is to be always seeking what is true, and to respect the efforts of thosewho suffer in the pursuit If you insult a man who is striving to hew out his path, if you persecute him whowishes, and perhaps fails, to find less inhuman roads for human progress, you make a martyr of him Yourway is the best, the only one, you say? Follow it then, and let me follow mine I do not oblige you to comewith me, so why are you angry? Are you afraid lest I should prove to be in the right?"

The impression left on Clerambault's mind by his last interview with Perrotin, was one of sadness and pity;but on the whole he decided to go again to see him, having by now arrived at a better understanding of hisironical and prudent attitude towards the world If he had retained but small esteem for Perrotin's character, onthe other hand the great intelligence of the old scholar continued to command his highest admiration; he stillsaw in him a guide towards the light

Perrotin was not exactly delighted to see Clerambault again The other day he had been obliged to commit alittle cowardly act; he did not mind that, for he was used to it, but it was under the eyes of an incorruptiblewitness, and he was too clever not to have retained a disagreeable memory of the incident He foresaw adiscussion, and he hated to discuss with people who had convictions there is no fun in it, they take

everything so seriously however, he was courteous, weak, good-natured, and unable to refuse when anyoneattacked him vigorously He tried at first to avoid serious questions; but when he saw that Clerambault reallyneeded him, and that perhaps he might save him from some imprudence, he consented, with a sigh, to give uphis morning

Clerambault related to him all that he had done, and the result He realised that the world around served othergods than his; for he had shared the same faith, and even now was impartial enough to see a certain grandeurand beauty in it Since these last trials, however, he had also seen its horror and absurdity; he had abandoned itfor a new ideal, which would certainly bring him into conflict with the old With brief and passionate touches,Clerambault explained this new ideal, and called on Perrotin to say if to him it seemed true or false; entreatinghis friend to lay aside considerations of tact or politeness, to speak clearly and frankly Struck by

Clerambault's tragic earnestness, Perrotin changed his tone, and answered in the same key

"It amounts to this, that you think I am wrong?" asked Clerambault, distressed "I see that I am alone in this,but I cannot help it Do not try to spare me now, but tell me, am I wrong to think as I do?"

"No, my friend," replied Perrotin gravely, "you are right."

"Then you agree that I ought to fight against these murderous mistakes?"

"Ah, that is another matter."

"Ought I to betray the truth, when it is clear to me?"

"Truth, my poor friend! No, don't look at me like that, I shall not follow Pilate's example, and ask: What isTruth? Like you, and longer than you perhaps, I have loved her But Truth, my dear Sir, is higher than you,than I, than all those that ever have, or ever will inhabit the earth We may believe that we obey the Great

Goddess, but in fact we serve only the _Dî minores_, the saints in the side chapels, alternately adored andneglected by the crowd The one in honour of whom men are now killing and mutilating themselves in aCorybantic frenzy, can evidently be no longer yours nor mine The ideal of the Country is a god, great andcruel, who will leave to the future the image of a sort of bugaboo Cronos, or of his Olympian son whomChrist superseded Your ideal of humanity is the highest rung of the ladder, the announcement of the newgod who will be dethroned later on by one higher still, who will embrace more of the universe The ideal andlife never cease to evolve, and this continual advance forms the genuine interest of the world to the liberalmind; but if the mind can constantly rise without rest or interruption, in the world of fact progress is made step

by step, and a scant few inches are gained in the whole of a lifetime Humanity limps along, and your mistake,the only one, is that you are two or three days' journey ahead of it, but perhaps with good reason that is one

of the mistakes most difficult to forgive When an ideal, like that of Country, begins to age with the form ofsociety to which it is strongly bound, the slightest attack makes it ferocious, and it will blaze out furiously inits exasperation The reason is that it has already begun to doubt itself Do not deceive yourself; these millions

of men who are slaughtering each other now in the name of patriotism, have no longer the early enthusiasm of

1792, or 1813, even though there is more noise and ruin today Many of those who die, and those who sendthem to their death, feel in their hearts the horrible touch of doubt; but entangled as they are, too weak toescape, or even to imagine a way of salvation, they proclaim their injured faith with a kind of despair, andthrow themselves blindly into the abyss They would like to throw in also those who first raised doubts inthem by words or actions To wish to destroy the dream of those who are dying for its sake, is to wish to killtwice over."

Clerambault held out his hand to stop him: "Ah! you have no need to tell me that, and it tortures me Do youthink I am insensible to the pain of these poor souls whose faith I undermine? Respect the beliefs of others;offend not one of these little ones My God! what can I do? Help me to get out of this dilemma; shall I seewrong done, let men go to ruin, or risk injuring them, wound their faith, draw hatred upon myself when I try

to save them? Show me the law!"

seismos Yesterday, in all countries, provinces were at war with each other Before that, in each province,

cities fought together Now that national unity has been reached, a larger unity develops It is certainly

regrettable that it should take place by violence, but that is the natural method Of the explosive mixture ofconflicting elements in conflict, a new chemical body will be born Will it be in the East, or in Europe? Icannot tell; but surely what results will have new properties, more valuable than its parts The end is not yet.The war of which we are now witnesses is magnificent (I beg your pardon; I mean magnificent to the mind,where suffering does not exist) Greater, finer conflicts still are preparing These poor childish peoples whoimagine that they can disturb the peace of eternity with their cannon shots! The whole universe must firstpass through the retort We shall have a war between the two Americas, one between the New World and theYellow Continent, then the conquerors and the rest of the world That is enough to fill up a few centuries.And I may not have seen all, my eyes are not very good Naturally each of these shocks will lead to social

"It will all be accomplished in about a dozen centuries (I am rather inclined to think that it will be more rapidthan it seems by comparison with the past, for the movement becomes accelerated as it proceeds.) No doubt

we shall arrive at a rather impoverished synthesis, for many constituent elements, some good, some bad, will

be destroyed in the process, the one being too delicate to resist the hostile environment, the other injurious andimpossible to assimilate Then we shall have the celebrated United States of the whole world; and this unionwill be all the more solid, because, as is probable, man will be menaced by a common danger The canals ofMars, the drying-up or cooling-off of the planet, some mysterious plague, the pendulum of Poe, in short, thevision of an inevitable death overwhelming the human race There will be great things to behold! TheGenius of the race, stretched to the uttermost, in its last agonies

"There will be, on the other hand, very little liberty; human multiplicity when near its end will fuse itself into

a Unity of Will Do we not see the beginnings already? Thus, without abrupt mutations, will be effected thereintegration of the complex in the one, of old Empedocles' Hatred in Love."

"And what then?"

"After that? A rest, and then it will all begin over again, there can be no doubt A young cycle The newKalpa The world will turn once more, on the re-forged wheel."

"And what is the answer to the riddle?"

"The Hindoos would tell you Siva Siva, who creates and destroys; destroys and creates."

"What a hideous dream."

"That is an affair of temperament Wisdom liberates To the Hindoos, Buddha is the deliverer As for me,curiosity is a sufficient reward."

"It would not be enough for me, and I cannot content myself either with the wisdom of a selfish Buddha, whosets himself free by deserting the rest I know the Hindoos as you do, and I love them, but even among them,Buddha has not said the last word of wisdom Do you remember that Bodhisattva, the Master of Pity, whoswore not to become Buddha, never to find freedom in Nirvana, until he had cured all pain, redeemed allcrimes, consoled all sorrows?"

Perrotin smiled and patted Clerambault's hand affectionately as he looked at his troubled face

"Dear old Bodhisattva," he said, "what do you want to do? And whom would you save?"

"Oh, I know well enough," said Clerambault, hanging his head "I know how small I am, how little I can do,the weakness of my wishes and protestations Do not think me so vain; but how can I help it, if I feel it is myduty to speak?"

"Your duty is to do what is right and reasonable; not to sacrifice yourself in vain."

"Do you certainly know what is in vain? Can you tell beforehand which seed will germinate and which willturn out sterile and perish? But you sow seed nevertheless What progress would ever have been made, ifthose who bore the germ of it had stopped terrified before the enormous mass of accumulated routine whichhung ready to crush them, above their heads."

"I admit that a scholar is bound to defend the Truth that he has discovered, but is this social question your

mission? You are a poet; keep to your dreams, and may they prove a defence to you!"

"Before considering myself as a poet, I consider myself as a man, and every honest man has a mission."

"A mind like yours is too precious and valuable to be sacrificed, it would be murder."

"Yes, you are willing to sacrifice people who have little to lose." He was silent for a moment, and then wenton:

"Perrotin, I have often thought that we, men of thought, artists, all of us, we do not live up to our obligations.Not only now, but for a long time, perhaps always We are custodians of the portion of Truth that is in us, alittle light, which we have prudently kept for ourselves More than once this has troubled me, but I shut myeyes to it then; now they have been unsealed by suffering We are the privileged ones, and that lays dutiesupon us which we have not fulfilled; we are afraid of compromising ourselves There is an aristocracy of themind, which claims to succeed to that of blood; but it forgets that the privileges of the old order were firstpurchased with blood For ages mankind has listened to words of wisdom, but it is rare to see the wise menoffer themselves as a sacrifice, though it would do no harm if the world should see some of them stake theirlives on their doctrines, as in the heroic days Sacrifice is the condition of fecundity To make others believe,you must believe first yourself, and prove it Men do not see a truth simply because it exists, it must have thebreath of life; and this spirit which is ours, we can and ought to give If not, our thoughts are only amusements

of dilettanti a play, which deserves only a little applause Men who advance the history of the world makestepping-stones of their own lives How much higher than all our great men was the Son of the carpenter ofGalilee Humanity knows the difference between them and the Saviour."

"But did He save it?

"'When Jahveh speaks: "'Tis my desire," His people work to feed the fire.'"

"Your circle of flame is the last terror, and Man exists only to break through, that he may come out of it free."

"Free?" repeated Perrotin with his quiet smile

"Yes, free! It is the highest good, but few reach it, although the name is common enough It is as exceptional

as real beauty, or real goodness By a free man I mean one who can liberate himself from himself, his

passions, his blind instincts, those of his surroundings, or of the moment It is said that he does this in

obedience to the voice of reason; but reason in the sense that you give it, is a mirage It is only another

passion, hardened, intellectualised, and therefore fanatical No, he must put himself out of sight, in order toget a clear view over the clouds of dust raised by the flock on the road of today, to take in the whole horizon,

so as to put events in their proper place in the scheme of the universe."

"Then," said Perrotin, "he must accommodate himself to the laws of that universe."

"Not necessarily," said Clerambault, "he can oppose them with a clear conscience if they are contrary to rightand happiness Liberty consists in that very thing, that a free man is in himself a conscious law of the

universe, a counter-balance to the crushing machine, the automaton of Spitteler, the bronze _Ananké_ I seethe universal Being, three parts of him still embedded in the clay, the bark, or the stone, undergoing theimplacable laws of the matter in which he is encrusted His breath and his eyes alone are free; "I hope," sayshis look And his breath declares, "I will!" With the help of these he struggles to release himself We are thelook and the breath, that is what makes a free man."

"The look is enough for me," said Perrotin gently

"And without the breath I should die!" exclaimed Clerambault.

In a man of thought there is a wide interval between the word and the deed Even when a thing is decidedupon, he finds pretexts for putting it off to another day, for he sees only too clearly what will follow; whatpains and troubles And to what end? In order to calm his restless soul he pours out a flood of energeticlanguage on his intimate friends, or to himself alone, and in this way gains the illusion of action cheaplyenough In the bottom of his heart he does not believe in it, but like Hamlet, he waits till circumstances shallforce his hand

Clerambault was brave enough when he was talking to the indulgent Perrotin, but he had scarcely got homewhen he was seized again by his hesitations Sharpened by his sorrow, his sensitiveness anticipated theemotions of those around him; he imagined the discord that his words would cause between himself and hiswife, and worse, without exactly knowing why, he was not sure of his daughter's sympathy, and shrank fromthe trial The risk was too great for an affectionate heart like his

Matters stood thus, when a doctor of his acquaintance wrote that he had a man dangerously wounded in hishospital who had been in the great Champagne offensive, and had known Maxime Clerambault went at once

to see him

On the bed he saw a man who might have been of any age He lay still on his back, swathed like a mummy,his thin peasant-face all wrinkled and brown, with the big nose and grey beard emerging from the whitebandages Outside the sheet you could see his right hand, rough and work-worn; a joint of the middle-fingerwas missing but that did not matter, it was a peace injury His eyes looked out calmly under the bushyeyebrows; their clear grey light was unexpected in the burned face

Clerambault came close and asked him how he did, and the man thanked him politely, without giving details,

as if it were not worth the trouble to talk about oneself

"You are very good, Sir I am getting on all right." But Clerambault persisted affectionately, and it did nottake long for the grey eyes to see that there was something deeper than curiosity in the blue eyes that bentover him

"Where are you wounded?" asked Clerambault

"Oh, a little of everywhere; it would take too long to tell you, Sir." But as his visitor continued to press him:

"There is a wound wherever they could find a place Shot up, all over I never should have thought therewould have been room enough on a little man like me."

Clerambault found out at last that he had received about a score of wounds; seventeen, to be exact He hadbeen literally sprinkled he called it "interlarded" with shrapnel

"Wounded in seventeen places!" cried Clerambault

"I have only a dozen left," said the man

"Did they cure the others?"

"No, they cut my legs off." Clerambault was so shocked that he almost forgot the object of his visit GreatHeaven! What agonies! Our sufferings, in comparison, are a drop in the ocean He put his hand over therough one, and pressed it The calm grey eyes took in Clerambault from his feet to the crape on his hat

"You have lost someone?"

"Yes," said Clerambault, pulling himself together, "you must have known Sergeant Clerambault?"

"Surely," said the man, "I knew him."

"He was my son."

The grey eyes softened

"Ah, Sir! I am sorry for you I should think I did know him, poor little chap! We were together for nearly a

year, and a year like that counts, I can tell you! Day after day, we were like moles burrowing in the samehole We had our share of trouble."

"Did he suffer much?"

"Well, Sir, it was pretty bad sometimes; hard on the boy, just at the first You see he wasn't used to it, like us."

"You come from the country?"

"I was labourer on a farm You have to live with the beasts, and you get to be like 'em But it is the truth I tellyou now, Sir, that men do treat each other worse than the beasts 'Be kind to the animals.' That was on a notice

a joker stuck up in our trench But what isn't good enough for them is good enough for us All right; I'm notkicking Things are like that We have to take it as it comes But you could see that the little Sergeant hadnever been up against it before; the rain and the mud, and the meanness; the dirt worst of all, everything thatyou touch, your food, your skin, full of vermin He came close to crying, I could see, once or twice, when hewas new to it I wouldn't let on that I noticed, for the boy was proud, didn't want any help, but I would jollyhim, try to cheer him up, lend him a hand sometimes; he was glad to get it You see you have to get together.But before long he could stick it out as well as anybody; then it was his turn to help me I never heard himsqueal, and we had gay times together must have a joke now and then, no matter what happens It keeps offbad luck."

Clerambault sat and listened with a heavy heart

"Was he happier towards the last?" he asked

"Yes, Sir, I think he was what you call resigned, just like we all were I don't know how it is, but you all seem

to start out with the same foot in the morning We are all different, but somehow, after a while it seems as if

we were growing alike It's better, too, that way You don't mind things so much all in a bunch It's onlywhen you get leave, and after you come back it's bad, nothing goes right any more You ought to have seenthe little Sergeant that last time."

Clerambault felt a pang as he said quickly:

"When he came back?"

"He was very low I don't know as I ever saw him so bad before."

An agonised expression came over Clerambault's face, and at his gesture, the wounded man who had beenlooking at the ceiling while he talked, turned his eyes and understood, for he added at once:

"He pulled himself together again, after that."